


Puppets Dancing on Strings

by imagineagreatadventure



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Twelve Dancing Princesses Fusion, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Fairy Tale Retellings, Gen, Multiple Pairings, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 05:57:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 38
Words: 74,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1807882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagineagreatadventure/pseuds/imagineagreatadventure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, there was a war and the war was lost.<br/>Twelve princesses from all over Westeros were forced to become the captives of King Tywin Lannister and his family. It went surprisingly well, for a time, ten years or so, until the day Princess Cersei vowed it would not.<br/>And then everything changed.<br/>Rated M to be safe.<br/>Twelve Dancing Princesses AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Qyburn

**Author's Note:**

> I am very excited to publish this, even though it's still a WIP, because it is probably one of my favorite things I have ever written. It's not perfect by any means, but I hope you all enjoy it anyways!  
> Also, there are some spoilers for the books, sort of, in this series. Mostly theory stuff as well as some prophecies, so just watch out for that?

**Prologue: Qyburn**

* * *

 “Will this do it?” 

Qyburn smiled at the only daughter of King Tywin although she didn’t notice it. Her eyes were aglow with lust for the bottle in his hands, “Yes, it will, although I’d warn you that it can be broken.”

“But not easily,” Princess Cersei smiled. Her teeth glinted in the candlelight and Qyburn surveyed the lovely princess, curious as to why she was so desperate.

“But not easily,” he agreed, “still it can be broken.”

Her green eyes flickered with something dangerous. Qyburn only smiled in reply.

“It won’t break. I’ll make sure of it,” she informed him, grabbing the bottle from his hand. Her hands were soft.

He folded his own hands in his lap, “As you say, Princess. But wait-“ she glanced at him with narrowed eyes, and he smiled at her suspicious nature, “I noticed that the potion matches your eyes.”

Princess Cersei held the bottle closer to her chest, where her breasts heaved against the constraint of her violet dress. “It must be a sign then,” she whispered, “I will be successful.” Qyburn watched as the princess raised the bottle to her lips and kissed it. Green shadows danced across her face. A sign, he mused.

 “Are you sure that you want to give this to all of the hostages?” Qyburn asked with mild curiosity, “There are so many of them, after all.”

The hostages from the Long War were all pretty, little princesses from various Kingdoms. The North, the Iron Islands, the Reach, the Island of Tarth, Dorne, even the land beyond the Wall wasn’t fully protected from Tywin Lannister’s wrath. But by the end, even King Tywin wanted an end to The Long War, and requested, as part of the terms of peace that he won, that each Kingdom send their daughters to him. Some Kingdoms had no daughters, while others had several. The Reach only had one daughter, but sent more princesses as a way of courting favor. Or perhaps it was to protect their crown princess - Qyburn couldn’t speculate their intentions. Not that he’d care to, either. The princesses were rather uninteresting to him, twelve girls stuck in a castle, hidden from sight. Qyburn felt that they’d be more useful as experiments than lying around Casterly Rock, but he was sure that the King knew better than a simple sorcerer.

Although, apparently, the princess disagreed with the King, but what was he to know of court intrigues?

Princess Cersei snarled, “Yes, I’m sure. I want Father to hate them all.”

Qyburn lifted an eyebrow, “I’m sure that after The Long War and the losses you all suffered, your own twin brother’s hand included,” she paled at this, although Qyburn didn’t understand why, “he hates them more than you suspect.”

Cersei shook her head, tousling her curls, her eyes sharp and fearful, “No. I have to do this. I have to ruin them.”

“Then do so, my princess. The power is in your hands.”


	2. Tywin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The problem is revealed.

**Tywin**

* * *

 

King Tywin Lannister had a problem.

Twelve problems or perhaps, truly, twenty-four.

“How can they be costing me this much gold?” he demanded, glaring at his youngest son, whom he had made Master of Coin years ago.

King Tywin did not like his son, for he was a dwarf that had killed his beloved wife, the only person King Tywin had ever truly loved. His other children only bore slightly more interest than his hated son, as Prince Jaime was his heir and Princess Cersei was his only daughter. But even his eldest children weren’t as important as the name of their family, and how that name struck fear into the hearts of men and women alike. The King’s heart was harder than stone and he only smiled when the youngest Stark princess came about his study, asking more questions than she ought.

But she hadn’t done that in weeks, much to his displeasure.

Prince Tyrion sat on a large, oak chair, raised higher so he could reach his father’s desk, and flicked through the books with feigned disinterest, “Their shoes,” he replied, “It’s their shoes.”

“Shoes?” King Tywin asked flatly, “How can they go through so many shoes? Aren’t they all done growing?”

Prince Tyrion nodded, “Everyone except Princess Arya and Princess Shireen should almost be finished growing. They are still rather young, but from what I have heard from Lord Varys, it is not that the shoes do not fit them anymore. It’s something stranger.”

“I don’t care for what Lord Varys has to say,” King Tywin grumbled, “What do you have to say.”

Prince Tyrion closed the book with a snap, “The shoes are being run ragged after only one day.”

King Tywin gritted his teeth, “One day.”

“We don’t know why,” Prince Tyrion answered the unspoken question, “Right before bed, their shoes are fine. Pretty and ready to be worn for months if not years. The next morning, utterly destroyed.”

“Is this how they repay me for my kindness?” King Tywin growled. It was more ice than fire, chilling the air around the two men.

“I doubt it,” Tyrion stated as if he did not notice his father's frigid disposition, although lesser men would have cringed, “I cannot imagine Princess Sansa doing such a thing, nor Princess Shireen. Or even Princess Brienne, although she’s as large as a man, your Grace, her heart is as filled with femininity as the next lady.”

King Tywin frowned with disapproval, “Except she grapples with swords and tries to play soldier.”

“So does Princess Arya and Princess Asha,” Prince Tyrion pointed out, hiding his smirk behind the book. It irritated Tywin that Tyrion knew of Tywin’s fondness for the younger Stark girl. Tywin liked the younger girl despite detesting the idea of women with weaponry in their hands.

“I can imagine that many of the other girls would have rounded even the meekest of them to revolt against me. With shoes. Or perhaps even doing it without the other girls’ knowledge.”

Prince Tyrion nodded, thoughtfulness poking through his mismatched eyes, much to King Tywin’s annoyance, “I could see Princess Daenerys pulling such a plot. Would you like me to investigate into the matter?”

“Considering that the damned shoes are costing me more than the damned armies each girl’s family lost, yes, I would like you to find out more.”

“You only needed to say please,” Prince Tyrion japed, before sliding off his chair.

King Tywin debated about warning his son about his impertinence before deciding he was too tired.

How could women’s shoes be his downfall?

Years he had kept the damned women in his home. Almost nine years. Little Princess Shireen had been a babe when she was given to him and Arya was a small child when she arrived at Casterly Rock.

And yet the princesses attempted to thwart him at every chance they could take. One year they pretended to be dying of Greyscale and then begged to see their families again. “One more time, Your Grace,” Princess Margaery had pleaded, quivering her bottom lip to good effect.

She was the only convincing one of the lot.

Tywin sent them to the maester instead, not willing to deal with children who were terrible mummers.

They hadn’t pulled such a scheme in years, the last one dealing with escaping down the tower that they slept in using Sansa’s flowing red hair. Something from a book Tyrion had given them, a mistake his youngest son did not make again. Princess Sansa and the rest all had their hair shorn short as punishment, although some of the princesses seemed to enjoy the punishment much to his irritation.

Princess Cersei had taunted the girls about their hair for months afterwards, making the Tyrell cousins cry on a daily basis, especially Alla Tyrell, only relenting when Prince Jaime distracted her with a present – a golden necklace with a lion clasp that she profusely thanked Jaime for with smiles and stars in her eyes.

His daughter, the most beautiful woman in Westeros and beyond, was older than all of the girls and had hated all of them the moment they stepped foot into the castle.

But Cersei had never liked to be overshadowed.

King Tywin sighed, and read over the numbers again. It would be time for a hard lesson if they did not stop with their foolishness.

One much worse than having their hair cut off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I obviously took Tywin's fondness for Arya from the show rather than the books. I loved those scenes a lot and it felt right for that fondness to occur in this AU.


	3. Jaime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime arrives home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Normally, I will not be updating this quickly. But I really wanted to publish this chapter.

**Jaime**

* * *

 

The Lannister Crown Prince was haughty, arrogant, and proud. If a man looked upon the prince, it would be as if he was looking upon the golden lion of the Lannister sigil. Even without his right hand, Prince Jaime stood tall, his green eyes raking over every person with a hidden jest dancing on his tongue.

The Crown Prince may have done dark deeds and said cruel words, but he also had a good heart hidden under his golden armor. Not even his beloved sister knew of it truly, although she knew and loved everything else about him, including parts no sister should know of a brother.

But still his good heart thudded in his chest, and it was his good heart that eventually tore him away from his twin. While Jaime’s heart was good and whole, Cersei’s heart was envious and frightened. It was her heart that led her to other men’s beds when Jaime was away from the castle. Prince Tyrion told his elder brother of these scandals with something similar to delight and while Jaime doubted the claims at first, partly due to the gleefulness of the rumor’s source, it soon became obvious that his sister was not as true to him as he was to her.

Prince Jaime removed himself from Casterly Rock one year past. Partially because of the terrible truth about his sister haunted him every time he saw her beautiful face and partially to force himself to remember his nature – a Knight that would protect rather than injure.

And he had injured many in the duty of loving Cersei.

But now Jaime was home and glad of it. He had chased around rapers and bandits for a year and a year was much too long to be without his family, even Cersei. Jaime had grown tired of the road early on, but knew he must catch the damned criminals. It was his duty as the prince to protect the innocent.

The _wench_ had reminded him of that.

The wench was Princess Brienne, although she scowled whenever anyone called her by her title, feeling more comfortable with just ‘Brienne’, although Jaime preferred calling her wench above all. At first it had been a jape at her expense, causing her to glare and blush all at once, but then it had become a token of his esteem for her, not that either of them acknowledged it as such.

She was much younger than him, only nine-and-ten, while Jaime was nine-and-twenty, but still Brienne had felt like his equal the moment they had met years before, when she was but an ugly girl who could barely speak a word to any man without blushing and he was but a forgotten Knight who had lost his swordhand.

Even then the giant wench had been stubborn and willful, causing his kingly father to grit his teeth when she demanded to be able to spar with the men, with young Princesses Arya and Asha beside her, their eyes dark and unyielding.

And somehow Brienne had prevailed against Tywin Lannister, King of Casterly Rock, without batting an eyelash in any man’s direction. She sparred with the men and the stupid oafs laughed until they were suddenly on the ground, with a wooden sword at their throat.

Jaime was eager to see the stubborn wench now that he was home, he grew to admire her greatly over the years and thought of her often during his travels across the realm. Possibly more often than he thought of his family, although he’d never admit it out loud.

“Prince Jaime,” a familiar voice snaked around his ears, “Welcome back to your home.”

Jaime dismounted from his horse and handed the reins off to his squire, Podrick Payne, a timid young boy who was the younger son of a minor lord in service to King Tywin, “Thank you, Lord Varys,” Jaime replied, watching the other man carefully. Lord Varys was a eunuch and therefore not to be trusted, or so King Tywin said often while speaking privately with his family. Jaime also didn’t trust Lord Varys, but it had more to do with him being the Master of Whispers than it had to do with Varys’ lack of manhood.

However, Tyrion liked the eunuch well enough, which made Jaime trust the man a little more than he trusted Grand Maester Pycelle and Littlefinger. The Grand Maester was loyal to Jaime’s sister and father above all else, which had made the maester distasteful to Jaime long ago.

And Littlefinger was, well, _Littlefinger_.

Lord Varys cocked his head, “Are you to greet your father? I am sure he has missed your presence.”

Jaime snorted and walked past Lord Varys. The other man managed to keep up with Jaime’s stride with little effort much to Jaime’s displeasure, “He’s only missed being able to throw me at different potential brides,” Jaime japed.

“Well, you are the heir,” Lord Varys commented, “It would be strange if he didn’t attempt to do such a thing.”

Jaime shook his golden mane and laughed, “I would never thought you would defend the King, Lord Varys.”

Lord Varys smiled, “I serve the realm, my prince, and that includes the King.” He touched Jaime’s arm with feigned hesitation and added, “It also includes the twelve princesses.”

Jaime stopped and surveyed the yard. A few serving girls were looking at him with admiration in their eyes, but no one else seemed to be paying Lord Varys and him any mind. He looked back towards the other man and nodded.

The bald man smile grew a little, “The girls are acting quite… peculiar and your father is very displeased.”

“What do you mean? Are they plotting again? I told the wench that none of them should do that again unless they want to lose a head,” Jaime stated, irritated. The golden prince glared up at the tower that held the princesses. They had only one tower, one tower to hold twelve women who came from all over the continent and had to grow up together, never leaving Casterly Rock. How on earth they hadn’t killed each other let alone his royal father amazed Jaime. He would have attempted it if the enemy captured him.

Or rather, he did attempt it, long ago, and lost a hand for his troubles.

Jaime still wasn’t sure what his father planned to do with the women now that they were almost all grown. He suspected that the plan must be to marry them all off to loyal lords of the Rock or to let them stay here forever as hostages. Jaime didn’t like either option very much, but knew it would be little use to return the women to their families, although Jaime secretly wished they could be.

Varys spoke again, “No, no, it is not that, I think. It’s just that they are not acting themselves. I haven’t see Princess Brienne, the wench as you say, near the training yard in weeks, for instance, nor have I spotted Princess –“

“Why would Brienne avoid the training yard? Has someone been cruel to her?” Jaime interrupted. It had happened before, but Brienne hadn’t avoided the yard in recent memory. The men who insulted her tended to lose to her and she enjoyed that, and so did Jaime, if he was being honest. Even Tyrion seemed to find it amusing, often winning gold betting on Brienne.

Varys looked at Jaime curiously, “Not that I know of, Prince Jaime, and if her behavior was the only odd one, I’d take a closer look into that possibility, but none of the Princesses have any desire to leave their tower, not even for meals. They sit around in their beds, lethargic and out of sorts. Grand Maester Pycelle has examined them several times at your Father’s behest, but he confirms that there is nothing wrong with them despite being like this for weeks. But that leads me to the strangest part of this tale – the shoes.”

“What about the shoes?” Jaime demanded.

Varys laughed a little, “I’m sorry, Prince Jaime, you just looked like His Grace then. He has had the same look on his face every day since he was informed.” Varys withered a little under Jaime’s glare, “Their shoes are being destroyed every night. That’s the real reason why your Father had them examined in the first place, he wanted to know why he was losing so much gold.”

Of course it was about the money, Jaime thought. “And how are their shoes being destroyed?”

Lord Varys shook his head mournfully, “No one knows and it is driving your kingly father to anger. It would not do to make King Tywin angry, as you well know.”

“Have they been questioned?”

Varys sighed, “Yes, but none of the girls can remember a thing, or so they claim. Perhaps you’ll have better luck. I’m sure your father will ask you to use your friendship with the Princess of Tarth for the good of the realm.”

“I’d rather not use my friendships, Lord Varys, it sets a bad precedent.”

Varys nodded, “Aye, it does, but sometimes matters cannot be helped.”

“Has Tyrion made an attempt yet?”

“He was the first one, even before your father knew about it. He asked them little questions and big ones, and your princely brother believes they truly do not know what has happened to their shoes.”

“Do you?”

Varys smiled enigmatically, “Perhaps they aren’t lying, but perhaps they aren’t telling the whole truth either, but magic does make liars of us all.”

Jaime frowned. Lord Varys was being entirely too upfront with him, “Magic? You believe this to be some sort of mummer’s trick?”

“No, no, not a mummer’s trick, Prince Jaime, true magic. These girls have grown up to become beautiful, well… most of them,” Jaime’s jaw clenched at the subtle jab at Brienne, but Varys didn’t notice, “and smart, again… most of them, and it’s quite strange that they’re all giving that up to sit in a tower massaging their ruined feet.”

A sudden image of the wench barefoot and in pain hit Jaime, “What do you mean ruined feet? I thought only their shoes were destroyed.”

“Well, it’s hard for most of the girls to walk, although Princess Arya does it anyways, wincing all the same. There isn’t a logical reason for it - Maester Pycelle says their feet look normal and as healthy as, well, feet can look. And despite their slothful attitudes not one of the girls have gained weight, they all seemed to have to become quite thin, almost too thin, looking quite starved I’d say, which is why I suspect magic.”

Jaime stood there for a moment, staring into Varys’ face, searching for a lie, but the eunuch revealed nothing but a serene smile.

“You know it’s magic, don’t you?” Jaime whispered, unwilling to be overheard by the servants passing.

Varys hesitated before nodding, “It is magic, Prince Jaime.”

“A little bird told you then,” Jaime said spitefully, “How useful. Father will never believe it.”

“Which is why I told neither him nor Tyrion, they are rational men, but you on the other hand are a romantic one.”

Jaime laughed outright, although his eyes were dark and angry. Lord Varys waited for the prince’s false laughter to abate before continuing, “You laugh, but it is true. I know you believe me and that you can convince your father and brother to hire guards or knights to spy on the girls during the night.”

Jaime scoffed, “The King will never allow men near his prized hostages.”

“I think you underestimate your Father’s growing desperation as well as your own skills of charm and persuasion.”

“If Father was able to fall under my charm and persuasion, the duty of being heir would have fallen to Cersei or Tyrion long ago.”

“But instead, you are his heir and he will listen to you, as long as you speak reasonably,” Varys countered with another small smile.

Jaime wanted to argue, but he couldn’t deal with another one of Vary’s smiles, “Fine, I shall talk to His Grace, but do not blame me when this backfires.”

“I shall only blame myself, Prince Jaime,” Varys smiled again, but this time it reached his eyes.

Cursing under his breath, Jaime left Lord Varys in the yard, and headed to the tower where his father held council. Podrick joined his side for a moment before Jaime sent him off again, this time to alert Tyrion and King Tywin about his arrival and request their presence in the council chambers.

But his father was already there with Tyrion, both men bent over books and looking wearier than Jaime had ever remembered. Even the war didn’t seem to drain on his father as much as these shoes.

“You’re back, I see,” King Tywin frowned. His tone was dry and Jaime suddenly felt as if he was a boy again, coming home from the war missing a hand. His father had never been affectionate, but since that night, long ago, his father had become even more distant from his heir. Perhaps it was because Jaime’s missing swordhand made it harder for Tywin to find his eldest son a wife. Perhaps it was Tywin’s natural dislike of cripples, bastards, and broken things.

Jaime didn’t really want to know the truth of it.

“It’s nice to see you too, Father,” Jaime quipped before settling down in the nearest chair, “Now what is this I hear about shoes?”

His father grunted while Tyrion smiled, exhaustion seeping out of his mismatched eyes, “I see Lord Varys took no time in catching you up.”

“Yes, he told me about the situation as soon as I dismounted from my horse. But his words gave me an idea. Shouldn’t we place guards outside and inside their room? To see what they are up to? This is obviously happening at night, whatever this is, and perhaps there’ll be a reasonable explanation.”

Tyrion smiled wryly, although his eyes were worried, “We’ve thought of that, we can’t afford it now that the princesses have practically drained our treasury. We haven’t even bought them shoes in the last two weeks and yet money is still disappearing as though we have.”

“Have there been new shoes on their feet then?”

Tyrion looked at Tywin, “I honestly cannot say.”

“I could guard them,” Jaime suggested. It seemed logical to Jaime and then he’d be able to see Brienne. It’d be hard to speak to her privately if she couldn’t or wouldn’t leave the tower.

King Tywin snarled, “You are my heir not a simple guard or knight. You should remember that.”

Jaime bristled, “Are you still angry at me for leaving then? For protecting our –“

“They are peasants. We protect the family.”

“We protect the people.”

They stared at each other with quiet fury until Tyrion spoke up.

“As much as this philosophical debate interests me, perhaps we should focus on our problem. The shoe problem.”

Tywin shifted in his chair, disgruntled, “Yes, well, do you have any bright ideas?”

“I do, actually,” Tyrion smiled, his teeth poking out of his mouth, “We shall offer a reward to any knight who can figure out what is happening with the princesses after three nights in the castle.”

“Why would they need three nights? And didn’t we just agree we can’t afford a reward?” Jaime asked, startled by the change in plans.

“Three nights because I don’t think one night will do it, and three is a powerful number according to all the stories I’ve ever read and power is always a good thing to have on your side, wouldn’t you agree, Father?” Tywin stared at his son without speaking. Tyrion kept smiling although it dimmed somewhat and Jaime felt pity for his younger brother, “And the reward is better than gold, dear brother, the reward is the hand of the princess of their choosing.”

Tywin narrowed his eyes at his youngest son, “This is your idea?”

“Do you have a better one?” Tyrion pointed out.

“No.” Tywin pursed his lips, “I think this is our only option.”

“What shall we do if they fail?” Jaime asked.

“Demand payment from them. They will have eaten from our stores and gawked at our hostages – they shall be in our debt,” Tyrion suggested.

“And if they touch any of the women, they shall be treated as rapers, castrated like that damn eunuch,” Tywin declared with finality, causing his upper lip to quiver.

Jaime wondered if his father did this out of a secret paternal feeling or if he didn’t want to risk his hostages becoming soiled goods. “Shall I inform the hostages?” Jaime asked. He wondered if his eagerness to see the wench was written over his face.

Tyrion smirked but his father was the one who answered, “No, you are not a courier or a raven. You shall sit here and wait for your sister.”

Jaime bit his tongue before he could say something stupid and was thankful when Tyrion spoke, “Cersei hasn’t heard much about any of this, but she needs to be brought into the fold now that the rest of the world will be.”

Tywin exhaled and frowned, “Surely we can keep this information away from our enemies.”

“We can try, but I am certain it won’t work,” Tyrion stated, “There are many men like Varys and all are eager to give their information to their master. And it wouldn’t be hard to inform them seeing as that we’ll be asking every sellsword and hedge knight for help.”

Disapproval was heavy on the King’s face but he said nothing. Instead, he drummed his fingers on the wooden table, trying to think of other options. But King Tywin knew there were none.

Jaime pitied his father. There really was no better option available to them. Not if their accounts were dwindling on their own, not if dark magic was truly involved.

They needed a hero like in the stories he heard in the songs of his childhood and if his father wasn’t going to let him be it, then someone else would have to become one.


	4. Gendry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was possibly the hardest chapter for me to write and I'm still not entirely pleased with it, but I hope you'll enjoy it!

**Gendry**

* * *

 

Gendry wiped his brow. He was covered in grime and soot and sweat. Tobho Mott had been working Gendry hard since this morning, ever since it was announced that any knight or sellsword that figured out what was wrong with the princesses kept as hostages in the golden Casterly Rock would be allowed to marry whichever princess they chose.

“They’re probably just homesick,” Gendry remarked to Tobho Mott who laughed scornfully at the bastard. This was a normal occurrence, so Gendry didn't mind it as much as other apprentices might. 

“How can they be homesick? They’ve lived here in the damned tower most of their lives and they are only allowed one letter a year from their families. King Tywin doesn’t let them be homesick!”

“Why does he even care about their health anyways?” Gendry asked while examining the sword he had just finished smithing. It wasn’t his best work, but a hedge knight would be happy enough with it, especially a stupid one.

Tobho Mott smacked the back of Gendry’s head, “It’s not their health that he’s worried about obviously or else he’d be sending for the best maesters in the seven kingdoms, not knights!”

Gendry rubbed the back of his head, already feeling a lump developing, “Should we go to Lannisport then?”

His master looked wild and bewildered, “Why in seven hells would we do that?”

Gendry shrugged, “I just thought if there were a lot of knights looking to save princesses that they’d want to buy good steel. And I know Casterly Rock might be the richest place in all of the seven kingdom, but it surely doesn’t have the best armor.”

Tobho Mott frowned, “I can’t leave my shop boy. Perhaps you should go in my stead.”

“Me?” _But I’m just a bastard boy,_ Gendry wanted to protest.

Tobho Mott smacked Gendry’s head again and Gendry saw stars, “You are a stupid lad if you think I’m being serious. You’re a good smith, not as good as me, but you’re better than any other smith I’ve ever seen and I need you here, not wandering around the damn seven kingdoms.”

“I am?” Gendry asked with wonder.

His master’s lips quirked, “Yes, you damned bastard, now pick up the pace.”

Gendry stopped for a moment. He felt as if thoughts were about to fly from his head like sparks from his metalworking, “But my apprenticeship is almost done, what am I to do then?”

Tobho Mott glared at him, “It’s not done, yet, boy, get back to work.”

And so Gendry did, trying to ignore the thoughts that thrummed in his brain.

But when he walked home that night, his feet thudding on the dirt road, his thoughts could no longer be held in chains. All he could imagine was living in Lannisport, making weapons for knights and Lords, not just weapons for sellswords and the wandering traveler. There wasn’t much work for smiths out in the middle of nowhere, and Tobho Mott should have known that. Yet this is where they were set up.

“Gendry!” Hot Pie greeted him when he entered the door, “I’ve baked us some bread, do you want any?”

“Uh, no, I’m alright,” Gendry muttered, still trying to get rid of the dreams that flew around in his brain. It was strange. He had never wanted to travel before but ever since he had heard of the Princesses, it was as if he had to go to Lannisport. A city made of gold, if the stories held true.

Lommy sniffed at Gendry, “You smell worse than usual,” he stated matter-of-factly.

Gendry grimaced at his younger roommate, “Well, yeah, so do you then.”

Hot Pie ignored the two of them as Lommy started to badger Gendry about bathing in the river, “Even if you smell like that shit river, you’d smell better than steel and soot.”

“At least steel smells better than rotting fish,” Gendry countered, remarking on Lommy’s job as a fisherman.

Lommy and Hot Pie were decent friends, but there were days that Gendry remembered that they were younger boys, that instead of being almost-men, they were barely-boys. And today was one of those days, Gendry mused, noting how Hot Pie aimed his farts at Lommy.

“Smell that, Lommy,” Hot Pie laughed as he threw Gendry a piece of bread, apparently ignoring Gendry’s wish to not eat bread.

Gendry caught it in the air and took a swift bite out of it. Like everything Hot Pie made, it was delicious. Hot Pie could make a pie out of sawdust and it would still taste good, Gendry suspected.

It wasn’t long before night approached. The three boys gathered their makeshift blankets that barely covered their feet and huddled together on a small mattress that lay by the side of their shack. Gendry didn’t mind the living situation as much as many would. He suspected that he was saving a lot of gold doing so and sharing the bed with two other bodies kept all of them warm during the cold night.

But it was an awkward situation when he dreamed.

And he dreamed that night.

Of lights and gold and shadows and dancing that he had never imagined before. Beautiful girls in beautiful dresses that reminded him of Old King’s Landing, dancing under the starlight and a dark moon that glowered at Gendry. He suspected he shouldn’t be seeing this scene but still he watched hungrily, admiring the way the rich lived, even though he suspected he wouldn’t enjoy it as much as he though he would.

There was one girl whose grey eyes and dark hair that caught his attention, she spun fluidly through the motions, avoiding the male dancers, and laughing as they tried to catch her. She looked around Hot Pie’s age, too young to be dancing all night, but still she did, and did it well. Until the moment she met his eyes, her eyes screaming a warning, and the whole image seemed to fracture into little pieces. Gendry screamed and tried to reach out to the girl, but it was too late.

The dream had broken.

“What’s the matter with you?” A voice shouted.

Gendry at first thought it was the girl, but then opened his eyes to see Lommy glaring at him.

“Dream,” Gendry managed to mumble, before pushing himself off the floor. He was embarrassed to realize there were tears on his cheeks.

Lommy scoffed, “You’re almost a man and you’re crying about nightmares. When I’m a man, I’ll do no such thing.”

Hot Pie watched the two of them and shrugged, uncaring about dreams, “Are you going to make any more armor for knights today, Gendry?”

“I doubt it,” Gendry muttered, placing his face in his hands. The girl’s shocked eyes haunted him.

“I’d love to meet a knight,” Hot Pie said jovially, “And you get to meet so many.”

“What are you talking about?” Gendry asked wearily.

“Well, you make armor, and only knights wear armor!”

“You idiot, any fool can buy armor,” Gendry stated, grabbing his shirt and putting it over his head. He had to make some fool’s armor today he knew.

Even though the call for Lannisport rang even higher in his ears than it did yesterday.

“Are you sure,” Hot Pie asked doubtfully, his eyebrows raised. Lommy laughed and punched Hot Pie in the shoulder.

Gendry ignored the two of them and left his little shack, walking a ways down the road to get to Tobho Mott’s. 

Tobho Mott saw the look on Gendry’s face and scowled immediately, “You stubborn fool, you want to go to Lannisport and make your own life, then fine get out of my shop,” Tobho Mott grumbled. “You’re not useful to me like this anyhow. Go make your way out in the world like you want to, I suppose. Just don’t be surprised if you get gutted, you baseborn bastard.”

Gendry stared at his master for a minute, “What?” His head was spinning. Tobho Mott wasn’t telling him to leave, was he? Gendry wasn’t sure what this would mean.

“You heard me, boy. Don’t act like an idiot, I know you’re not one.”

Gendry ignored that bit, “And if I don’t do well?” 

“Then you’ll be clapped back into your apprentice irons, what do you think, boy?” Tobho Mott smirked.

Gendry mulled over this. He knew he was a decent smith and thought if there were enough customers in Casterly Rock that he could make enough gold to become his own man. Perhaps even buy his own little shack in Lannisport instead of sharing with two other apprentices like he did in the village. Hot Pie and Lommy were good friends, but it would be better to have his own home.

And perhaps have a family some day.

But those were thoughts for a man, not a boy. And he was still a bastard boy, forgotten by most, ignored by all.

He had to remember that, even when he was in Casterly Rock, because everyone would know him for what he was as soon as he gave them his name.

Waters. Bastard of King’s Landing, although the city belonged to no king now that The Long War was over, just as Gendry belonged to no father. The city and he were bastards together or they were until his mother sent him off from the city when a greyscale epidemic hit the city when he was a small child. And, of course, not long after that the war decimated the city....

Gendry sighed at his memories and smacked the hammer down on the anvil.

The steel sung.

It wasn’t but a week later that Tobho Mott sent Gendry out of his shop with some coin to set up shop in Casterly Rock. Gendry was astounded at his master’s generosity and thanked him several times but Tobho Mott merely scowled at Gendry in return.

There was a merchant’s caravan heading to Lannisport and they offered to bring Gendry with them since they believed the boy was a poor apprentice trying to have a new start there. They were unaware of how much money he had, which Gendry suspected was a good thing, as if they knew he had this much coin on him, it wouldn’t take long for his corpse to fall on the side of the Goldroad.

Gendry wondered, not for the first time, if this idea truly was a great plan. Now that the gold was in his hands, Gendry wasn’t sure if this was the brightest idea, but Tobho Mott seemed so eager (almost as if he was Gendry’s father, the bastard realized with a sort of sadness) to send him off that Gendry was afraid to admit his fearful thoughts out loud. Could or should he really get his start in Lannisport of all places?

“Get on, boy,” Tohbo Mott declared his goodbye, almost smiling.

Gendry smiled uneasily in return and left his former life behind.


	5. Tyrion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion drinks and muses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a short chapter, forgive me... and I hope you'll like it anyways.

_**Tyrion** _

* * *

 

Tyrion sighed over his goblet of Dornish red.

So far, his _brilliant_ idea had accomplished nothing. Nothing other than losing more food and wine than they could afford to lose.

Even the Lannisters had their limits of money and they were reaching theirs. It didn’t help that the mines were starting to dry up. There wasn’t any gold left in the mountains.

Several men had come, seeking to end their plight. They ate the food, drank the wine, went outside the girls' bedroom and then…

At first, Tyrion suspected that the man in question had tried to harm the girls and that the girls attacked him with such force that the man fled in shame. Sellswords were not known to be brave or honorable and so Tyrion only lightly questioned the girls who proclaimed they knew nothing of the man’s fate.

Tywin agreed with Tyrion’s suspicions, so the girls escaped any punishment.

But then it happened again.

And again. And again.

Although this meant that they were losing less food than originally foreseen, it still troubled Tyrion a great deal.

Good and terrible men had been lost in this task and Tyrion knew that his own willful brother would be lost soon too if they could not find someone who could accomplish the undertaking quickly.

Tyrion knew that Jaime thought he was discreet with his feelings towards the giantess that lurked in the tower, but his elder brother’s affection for the girl dripped off the crown prince like water off a wet dog. It was quite amusing for Tyrion to watch, if only because of Cersei’s anger about it.

Their father noticed none of this, or if he did, he willfully ignored it, focusing instead on other ways to incur revenue while their treasuries emptied. Including raising the taxes on the smallfolk.

Tyrion still wasn’t sure where their gold was going, he almost suspected Cersei to have a hand in it, perhaps saving money in a way she’d believe would help the family, but didn’t believe she’d have the smarts or the guts for the deed.

Which left several options, none of them very pleasant to think about.

Magic was the biggest and nastiest option of them all.

And, Tyrion had begun to suspect, _although he hated to admit it_ , the most likely.

It wasn’t as if magic didn’t exist, it was just rare, especially in Westeros, and it was mostly relegated to midwifery and other such trivialities. Not curses.

But if any family in Westeros was to be cursed, it would be their family, Tyrion thought wryly. They had more enemies than there were people in the Kingdoms. And Tyrion was sure it was the same across the Narrow Sea.

Tyrion wondered if it wouldn’t be better to just return the girls one by one to their families. Perhaps that’d be the cure. But knew it’d be useless to suggest it to his father, who would become quietly irate at the thought of returning hostages home.

Tyrion knew that his father planned to marry the girls off to loyal bannermen. Poor Brienne of Tarth was the first one to be chosen for his father’s plan. Tarth was a small island and not worth much and Tyrion knew that his father believed the giantess to be the perfect throwaway hostage, a way of testing the reactions of the hostages’ families, a way of testing Tywin’s own bannermen.

Personally, Tyrion thought that the Tyrell cousins would have been a better choice as they weren’t true princesses or politically important at all. And they were pretty enough that they’d be accepted immediately. Brienne was unaware of this, but three suitors had already rejected her in the past year. They had seen her face and her fighting skills in the practice yard and were appalled by the ‘mannish woman’. 

Tyrion didn’t think much of the men his father picked for Brienne and knew that the girl was better off without them. They were brutes and bullies, not worthy of Brienne or really any of the women in that tower.

Cersei would have been a better fit for those men, but Tyrion would rather cut off his tongue than say that to his father, who would just glower at him for being impertinent.

He did say so to Cersei though. Her glower wasn’t nearly as fierce as their father’s.

Tyrion wondered what Jaime would do if their father succeeded in marrying Brienne off after the whole mess with the shoes was done. Would he threaten Brienne’s betrothed as he would have once done for Cersei? Tyrion wasn’t sure what his older brother would do. Jaime was so different after his travels and even before that his demeanor had changed drastically. Brienne of Tarth influenced Jaime enough even before his brother’s journey across the land, and now it was as if his brother’s golden façade had become his true face, that the giantess had brought out some sort of goodness in Jaime that Tyrion had for so long suspected died in The Long War.

Tyrion knew that Jaime had already snuck into the tower once to speak to his not-so-secret ladylove and Tyrion was glad of it. Tyrion believed that Jaime could find out the source of the problem as he was the only Lannister that possessed any sort of camaraderie with the hostages. But it was no use. Jaime learned nothing and looked miserable as soon as he left Brienne in her tower.

His misery, however, settled into determination, as Jaime was never the sort of man to give up. Jaime’s resilience was one of his best qualities and so was Jaime’s capacity to love the strangest women. But Tyrion tried not to mention the second part to Jaime, unless provoked.

Even now Jaime was canvassing Lannisport, looking for heroes, or rather, future victims, to save the twelve girls.

Tyrion was having his doubts about this plan. The more men that disappeared the less likely another man would show up to solve the mystery. How much longer could they attempt this? How much longer before one of their enemies attacked them with the full force of their bannermen, now that it was known they were subject to a curse?

Tyrion wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answers.


	6. Catelyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The North receives news . . . and remembers.

**_Catelyn_ **

* * *

Winterfell had lost its beauty long ago. The war had done no favors for the Stark’s ancestral home.

Nor did the Stark’s themselves fare well in The Long War.

Three children had been lost in the war: one murdered, two stolen by the enemy. 

And their King was gone too.

Ned Stark had been killed during the early days of the war, when the North still had a chance of winning. When Robb was still alive.

When Catelyn Stark’s daughters were able to stand by their mother and tease one another.

Catelyn often wondered if her daughters still pretended to hate each other, or if the loss of their family and their home robbed them of that sisterly affection.

Bran now sat on the simple throne in the throne room. Etched in the weirwood throne were carvings of direwolves and heart trees. It was truly the embodiment of the North and Catelyn found comfort in it, even though she was a southron girl herself, once a princess of the Riverlands, lifetimes ago.

He was still a boy, but Catelyn could see the sensibility of Ned running through Bran’s veins. Perhaps it was the fall from the tower that tempered Bran's wild nature . . . Jaime Lannister was to blame for that misfortune, Catelyn now knew, but sometimes she wasn’t sure if the knowledge was worth the loss of her children and her husband.

The knowledge of Jaime Lannister’s evil couldn’t make her laugh or keep her warm at night. It could only inflate the misery that lived in her stone heart. 

Jon Snow, her husband’s bastard, whispered into Bran’s ear, and her son laughed joyfully. Of course Jon Snow lived while her Robb died. It was punishment from the gods, the old and the new, for treating the boy so badly growing up. For not loving him as a mother ought to love a motherless child.

But she couldn’t focus on her sins now; she had news to give to the King.

With a heavy heart and a terrible smile, she approached her son, “Bran, a raven has reached us, it speaks of Tywin Lannister. . . and your sisters.”

The laughter was gone on Bran’s face by the time Catelyn finished speaking. Even as a boy of thirteen, he knew what a raven about Tywin Lannister meant.

Nothing good.

“What did it say?” he asked, his boyish face stern and serious, as if he hadn’t been wrestling with Rickon an hour ago.

“There’s rumors,” she hesitated, realizing the words she spoke could sound mad, “of the princesses being under a spell.”

Jon Snow shifted next to Bran, but said nothing. Catelyn was grateful for it, she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to continue otherwise, “But the truth of the matter is, they haven’t been seen by anyone other than Lannisters and their household for weeks. Usually, the girls are allowed some leeway, I remember that Arya mentioned going to Lannisport with a heavily armed guard in one of her letters, but they haven’t been seen outside their room for weeks.”

“Is that all, Mother?” Bran asked.

“No… it’s not. The Lannisters are losing their grip. Their treasury is growing lighter by the minute. Their gold is disappearing and no one knows why, including Tywin Lannister.”

Bran was silent, looking pensive. The way his brows were raised reminded Catelyn of Ned.

_Poor Ned._

Jon spoke, “Could these events be related? Perhaps he suspects one of the princesses of stealing from him?”

Bran nodded, “That seems possible, right, Mother?” 

“It is, but the rumors of magic seem to be the strongest ones… although Petyr,” Catelyn smiled in remembrance of the little boy who once followed her and her sister around as children, “who serves with King Tywin, wrote and said that he suspects Prince Tyrion of stealing the gold.”

“Does he have proof?” Bran asked, frowning, “It’s hard to imagine a prince stealing from his kingly father.” 

“I trust Petyr,” Catelyn declared with some bitterness, “He is an old friend-”

“But he still could be wrong, Queen Catelyn,” Jon interrupted. She glared at him until she couldn’t bear it. He looked too much like Ned.

“My brother is right,” Bran announced, his dark eyes narrowed, “There is too much riding on this to depend on your friend’s word, no matter how loyal he is. We need to send one of our own to the Lannister’s castle, we need to know the truth before we make any decisions. We shouldn’t go to war just because of a rumor, especially if it turns out to be false.”

 _But my daughters_ , Catelyn wanted to cry. _My beautiful Sansa, is her hair still Tully red, or has it grown dark like the Stark’s of old? And is Arya as wild as she seems from her letters, or perhaps even wilder? Does she have the blood of a wolf?_

Bran must have sensed her dismay for he spoke again, “Mother, do not worry. I’m sending Jon. We can trust him.” 

Jon looked as startled as Catelyn felt, which was oddly reassuring, “Your Grace?”

Bran continued to speak, “Jon, you can find out what’s happening. It’s hard to hear the truth up here in the North, and we have no spies to send us word, only what our loyal bannermen and friends tell us. If things are as dire as the rumors proclaim then someone must go down to see if Sansa and Arya are safe. And I only trust you to do that.” His small, stern face hurt Catelyn. It was much too serious for a boy so young.

Catelyn swallowed. Her spit tasted like the air in Mikken’s smithy, metallic and full of fire and smoke. The distaste made her turn away from the boys.

Although perhaps it was the distaste of what Catelyn was about to say to the bastard boy that truly troubled her, “They’re your sisters too, Jon Snow,” she said at last, refusing to look at her husband’s son.

Because Catelyn was turned away, she did not witness the tears filling Jon’s eyes although she suspected they were there. She knew Jon Snow favored Arya and that he grew up wishing that Sansa treated him like a brother, although Sansa never did, as she tried to be like her lady mother and so Sansa ignored her bastard brother.

Sansa wouldn’t now, Catelyn knew. _Why was this a comfort?_ It should be a horror, but instead Catelyn wanted to weep with happiness, imagining her daughters wrapped in Jon’s arms, as he kept them safe from the Lannisters.

Even a bastard Stark was better than a trueborn Lannister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Book readers... I hope you saw what I did there.


	7. Cersei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei plots.

**_Cersei_ **

* * *

Cersei sipped her goblet of wine, ignoring the leers of the hedge knight, Ser Osmund Kettleblack, next to her.

Her father, the King, had decided that the best way to honor the knights and mercenaries that dared to break the curse was to sit them next to his daughter, the most beautiful woman alive.

And she almost hated her father for it.

Cersei felt a large, muscular hand crawling next to her leg. For a moment, she thought it was Jaime’s before remembering he sat beside her Father while she was stuck next to a drunken hedge knight. 

She smiled sweetly at the knight while entertaining the idea of sticking a knife in his skull.

“Now, Ser Osmund,” her father intoned, “what is your strategy?”

The knight smirked and she noticed that he was handsome, although not as handsome as Jaime.

But no one was.

Not even Jaime was as handsome as he once was; after all, he was a cripple now, lacking one hand. A graying cripple, while her locks of gold had not tarnished even as her thirtieth year drew near. Even her hands were still as soft as a young girl’s, lacking the calluses that plagued lowborn women. The stupid girls in the tower who somehow convinced her father to let them play soldier weren't as lucky as Cersei. Their hands were as hard as any man's.

She could have been beautiful for the both of them, but his jealousy ruined everything. _He could never see the big picture_ , Cersei reflected, staring at Jaime’s ugly beard. There were silver hairs in it.

Cersei swallowed her wine while Ser Osmund babbled about his process of solving the mystery, his hand grasping her thigh now, even pinching her skin here and there.

She couldn’t wait until he disappeared like all the others, cursed to dance every night. Hopefully he would dance with the ugly Tarth girl, who would probably step on his feet the whole time, even though the oafish girl was under a curse that made her a perfect dancer.

He deserved it, if the idiot thought he could molest the Princess of Casterly Rock in front of her own father.

Jaime eyed the hedge knight with disdain and Cersei couldn’t help but smile. Jaime loved her still, she knew. How could he not?

After all, the prophecy wasn’t going to come true now that the princesses were dying.

Cersei couldn’t be cast down by one of them now. She’d rule with Jaime as Queen.

The Targaryens married brother to sister for generations. They were dragons so the septons allowed it, but weren’t lions just as fierce as dragons?

Her father would never see such sense, but unless he guaranteed her a better match she would not marry anyone but Jaime. She would rule as Queen when her father died. 

Jaime loved her and would never let her go. They would marry and he would let her rule. He never wanted to rule anything but her bed.

Her role as Jaime’s Queen would be set as soon as the other girls were dead. Dead from too little food and too little sleep. Dead from dancing and gallivanting in an enchanted wood under their tower.

Cersei did not understand how the spell worked, but did not care, as long as it did work.

And it did indeed work.

Although she did wish the potions weren’t so expensive. She had not noticed the price at first, but after weeks of purchasing the potion, the dent in their treasury became noticeable.

But it mattered little. It would come back. It was just gold, and they had plenty of it, she knew, no matter what Tyrion tried to say. He was a malicious imp and a practiced liar.

He sat beside Jaime, looking ridiculous. She knew his feet couldn’t reach the floor yet he smirked and sat there as if he belonged at this table.

As if he didn’t murder her mother.

She would kill him as soon as she had the chance. It couldn’t be too hard. Tyrion was as small as a child, smaller than some. She had to do it before he did. He was the _valonqar_ and such a creature would not kill her.

The dinner ended. Jaime led Ser Osmund  to the princesses’ tower, while her father and Tyrion retreated to council chambers where she expected her father would hear more lies about the state of their treasury.

Cersei mulled in her bedchambers about methods of killing Tyrion while her maid brushed her hair. Perhaps an assassin would be the best way to go about it, especially as there were so many men for hire in Casterly Rock now. It wouldn’t be hard to find a disreputable soldier who would possibly only want sex in exchange.

She could just pretend it was Jaime. Cersei had done so before. Sex was the best weapon she had and she brandished it with ease.

The maid pulled on her hair too harshly and Cersei slapped her, “That’s enough, get out!”

The stupid girl, her face red, curtsied and fled, leaving Cersei in peace.

She examined her face in the mirror and frowned. There were wrinkles where there should have been none, around her eyes and mouth.

Suddenly Maggy the Frog’s face appeared behind her and Cersei screamed. She spun around, grabbing her hairbrush to hit the witch, and was greeted by… nothing.

Maggy wasn’t there.

But now Cersei could hear the prophecy in her ears as if Maggy was standing beside her, whispering, just as she did that day years ago. When Jaime still had a hand and Cersei’s breasts had not yet budded.

“ _There comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear.”_

“No,” Cersei said choking on the memories. Maggy smiled in them.

_“The valonqar shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you.”_

“He won’t. I’ll kill him first,” Cersei promised, turning around the room, looking for Maggy.

“I’ll kill you too,” Cersei thought out loud, tripping over her dressing robe and landing in front of the mirror.

Tears were huddled in her eyes and Cersei had never hated herself more for being afraid.

She would not be torn apart, not by Maggy the Frog. And nor would she be shattered by the wolves or the flowers or the dragons - _they_ would be destroyed by her lion’s roar, and the other weak women would fall apart beside them.

And then she would choke the life out of Tyrion herself, just as he did to their mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably my favorite chapter I have ever written and I'm not even sure why. Cersei was just really fun to write.  
> Perhaps it's the looseness of her morals combined with her probable insanity - I don't really know. I just know I had a blast writing her perspective.  
> Despite, you know, her thoughts being pretty disturbing.


	8. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa thinks over the recent events.

**_Sansa_ **

* * *

 

Sansa awoke with startled breath. The early morning light was flowing through the windows of her tower and Sansa resisted sighing in response. She missed sleeping. She had never realized how often she used to sleep, but now she was lucky to sleep two hours before the bright sun awakened her.

If only dancing wasn’t such a pleasure. If only the men weren’t so handsome and sweet, just like the songs the bards sang from her childhood in Winterfell.

If only she were allowed to tell Prince Tyrion and King Tywin the truth, but every time she tried, it was as if she couldn’t speak at all.

The other princesses had similar trouble although most worried little over it. Only a few seemed fretful, including her sister Arya, but even their worried expressions didn’t seem as worried as Sansa would expect, if conditions were, well, _normal_.

Perhaps it was because they each had a man to dance with now.

It was so kind of the men to offer to stay with them each night. Sansa suspected there would be more men than women soon if the King kept sending brave men to protect her and the other princesses.

And they were all such brave knights. In fact, the night before Sansa danced with Ser Osmund Kettleblack, the newest Knight to join them in their beautiful, sparkling woods. He was such a wonderful dancer with a brilliant smile, he was even tall, dark, and handsome like the knights in the stories.

She winced in pain. Her feet hurt terribly. It worsened every day. Sansa was barefooted, as she and the other princesses were not allowed to wear shoes on the command of King Tywin. Yet it didn’t bother her much, not as much as the lack of sleep did. Sansa worried that there were shadows under her eyes, although kind Ser Kettleblack said there were none.

But Sansa felt weak when she awoke each morning. The days felt like a prison, especially now that they couldn’t leave the tower. She could hardly limp from bed to bed during the day, and the other princesses felt the same. It was so much easier to walk at night and Sansa felt so much prettier then too, as if all her blemishes from the lack of sleep disappeared.

Even when she stepped on the glass branches, she felt nothing, nothing but bubbling happiness.

All the girls did, Sansa knew. Even Princess Brienne, who could be quite taciturn, smiled when Ser Hyle danced with her, somehow looking smaller than him, despite being taller than most men. Even Prince Jaime wasn’t as tall as Brienne, after all, and yet Brienne looked so petite in the night.

Everyone looked beautiful in the woods. Princess Shireen’s greyscale wasn’t as noticeable and Princess Margaery, who was always lovely, looked even more striking, her eyes and teeth sparkling. She completely entranced the men she danced with, looping and twirling around the dance floor.

Although now Princess Margaery looked about as well as Sansa felt. Her golden brown eyes that once shined  looked dark and dim in the morning’s light.

“Sansa,” Princess Margaery greeted with a tired grin, “Did you sleep well?”

Sansa smiled weakly, “Yes?”

Margaery laughed before coughing. She looked paler in the sunshine than she did in the moonlight, “I expect I slept as well as you then.”

“Would you keep it down? I was trying to sleep!” The coverlet muffled Arya's voice, but it wasn’t hard to hear her frustrated tone.

Princess Daenerys sat up straight in her bed, which was situated across from Sansa’s. Her face revealed nothing, but her tone revealed everything, “Princess Arya, we’ve all awoken at sunrise since we began dancing, do not act like a child.” 

“I am a child,” Arya protested before sitting up.

“You are a princess,” Daenerys corrected. Her violet eyes danced in amusement, although Danerys' tone remained stern. The silver haired girl hated to reveal her mirth, “And you’ve had your maiden’s blood long ago. You are not a child any longer.”

Sansa smiled, to soften Princess Daenerys' harsh words, “You’re a lady, Arya.”

Arya twisted to face Sansa and scowled. Their beds were beside each other, so Sansa could see how pallid her sister was, sitting in her bed. Before Arya had been tan as the commonfolk from practicing swordplay outside with Brienne and Asha.

Sansa could hear the chattering of the other ladies as they awoke. Margaery’s cousins were the loudest ones - they discussed every detail of the night before, from the room to the dresses to the ballroom.

Sansa secretly envied them. They were the girls most likely to go free as soon as this was over. King Tywin did not need them. They were not true princesses. They weren’t like her and Arya, who would live in this tower the rest of their days.

They would never see Winterfell again.

Although, Sansa mused, that would not be so bad if they danced every night with handsome men. They all reminded Sansa of Florian from the songs. Oh to have her own Florian!

A knock at the door disturbed the room, and the room that had once been filled with chattering and laughter became silent and still, reminding Sansa of the times that she had snuck into Winterfell's crypt as a young girl. Prince Jaime opened the door, and his handsome face was solemn.

“What happened to Ser Osmund?” Prince Jaime asked, looking at each Princess.

Sansa’s heart clenched when Ser Jaime glanced at her. Sansa did not want to lie, but she knew she could not speak. He looked away from her and towards Princess Brienne.

Sansa knew Prince Jaime admired Princess Brienne. Everyone knew of the early morning practices and late night walks between the two warriors. Sansa had thought it romantic when it first began. Unfortunately, Brienne's unhappy frown when Sansa suggested the idea told Sansa a different story. Sansa had hoped for something grand and romantic and realized that the two warriors were nothing more than friends.

Although, Sansa still wanted it to be something more, for Brienne's sake. She wished Prince Jaime could join their nightly dances - he would outshine all the men that were there, even with his golden hand. Sansa often imagined that he would sweep Brienne around the floor, making Brienne blush and laugh and frown like he used to do, before he left, and before all this had begun.

But instead the two warriors shared stony silences with each other each day- Jaime always looked pleadingly into Brienne’s eyes when he came and asked about the knights. It had been like this since the first knight came, Jaime coming to beg Brienne for a response, demanding to know the answers of their ruined feet.

If only they could speak of it. 

But they couldn’t, Sansa knew.

Although she didn’t understand why that was. 

“Where is Ser Osmund?” Jaime demanded, staring at Brienne. Sansa glanced curiously at her friend, whose blue eyes shone even brighter now than they did before, due to the paleness of her face. She was still ugly, perhaps even uglier now than she had been before. It was harder to look into Brienne's face now that Sansa knew Brienne could look _almost beautiful_ in the enchanted forest late at night. Despite this, Brienne’s eyes still held such power over those who looked into them, although few chose to do so.

Sansa thought it was their loss.

Val, the wildling princess, who usually laughed at such titles, spoke in Brienne's stead, “We haven’t seen your knight, Prince Jaime.”

Jaime huffed, but said nothing, sweeping his eyes over the room instead. Sansa wondered why he could not see the obvious trapdoor that was almost right under his feet. Could only they see it?

It was something to puzzle over during the long day and the even longer night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Sansa seems extra-dreamy, remember this is in a universe where her dreams are only sort of crushed. They aren't completely destroyed as of yet, anyways.   
> And, if it wasn't clear, she's also under the spell which makes her thoughts a little more muddled and rose-colored than they would be normally (even in this universe). Only a few of the princesses are still able to struggle against the spell's power (as it's been weeks/months of this).


	9. Gendry II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry meets an old woman in the forest.

**_Gendry II_ **

* * *

 

Days had passed on the Goldroad with little problem. The wagon cart held his weight and his small bag of luggage fine. There were only three other men in the party, two merchants and what Gendry believed was a sellsword, although the man just told Gendry to call him Bronn.

Bronn was too large, scarred, and muscular to be anything but a sellsword.

Gendry’s suspicions were confirmed on the third night when they set up camp.

One of the traders, a Dornishman by the look of him, smiled at the sellsword, “So, I know you’re glad you agreed to help us now.”

Bronn laughed, “You say help, but I still expect to be paid.”

The other trader, whom Gendry had heard was from Braavos, frowned, “Of course, you’ll be paid, I’m sure he meant nothing by it.”

“That’s good or else we might have three corpses on the ground.” He laughed again when he saw their shared looks of dismay, “Not that I’ll kill you, some bandits will do that for me. I’ll just abandon you lot.”

The Dornishman spoke again, “Excuse my Braavosi friend, he is quick to suspect bloodshed, with their high tempers.” Gendry vaguely remembered that it wasn’t just Braavos that had that sort of repute - Dornishmen were also rumored to be passionate fighters and lovers.

The Braavosi scoffed but did not contest it. The Dornishman smiled, “All I meant was the prize offered by King Tywin surely would seem appealing to any sellsword.”

“That’s if you want to bother with the mess. Especially since there’s no gold,” Bronn sniffed.

“Is a princess not enough reward for you?” the Braavosi asked, “Any man should find himself interested in such a woman.”

Bronn cracked another smirk, “I’ll take a whore any day.”

The Dornishmen sighed dramatically, as if he couldn’t believe a man wouldn’t want a beautiful, princess bride, “You may like the look of one of them, you could always try.”

“I don’t trust Tywin Lannister enough to try, king or not. If he’s desperate enough to hand off his hostages, then something is wrong. And I can’t make any gold if my head is off my shoulders.”

“But what if –“ Gendry started to say. The other men looked at him with mild amusement. It had been the first time he had spoken to any of them without being prodded first.

“Yes, you were saying something, boy?” the Dornishman asked.

Gendry could feel his face burning but continued speaking, “What if you thought you could figure it out, whatever it is? And you liked one of the princesses well enough? I’m sure you could marry them and then for a ransom return that girl to her family. You’d get a wife, gold, and possibly more.”

Bronn frowned, “I can’t imagine the king would let anyone who married one of those women out of his sight.”

Gendry shrugged. He didn’t understand the particularities of war and peace and politics. It had been nearly ten years since The Long War had ended… surely the girls could go home now?

But he had no crown on his head, thank the Seven, he didn’t have to think about things like that. His own fate was hard enough to manage - he didn’t want to deal with a kingdom full of fates.

Gendry slept with heavy thoughts plaguing his mind, imagining a crown on his head and a stag with large antlers beside him whispering into his ear, and was overwhelmed when Bronn shook him awake.

“Get up, it’s time to take a piss. Or else we’ll never get to that damned city,” the older man said, brushing grass off his pants with a bitter smirk.

Gendry nodded, still feeling as if he was in a dream as he ambled over to a tree that was hidden away from the campsite.

He took his time pissing, trying to chase away the dreams that still lingered in his tired eyes.

“It wouldn’t do to be King,” he muttered to himself, still feeling the weight of a crown upon his head. Or perhaps that was just a headache.

“But it’d be nice to married to a princess, wouldn’t it?”

Gendry turned his head to see who spoke.

It was an old woman hidden in the shadows. She smiled at him and Gendry’s nerves relaxed. An old woman couldn’t do him any harm.

“I could harm you, boy, especially if you keep your cock out like that,” she cackled.

Gendry blushed and shifted himself. When he turned back to the woman, her golden eyes seemed brighter, “How did you know what I was thinking?”

“Is that your first question?”

“What?”

“Ah, I suppose not then. You don’t know who I am do you, Gendry Waters?”

“You know my name?”

“I know many things. Including your name, yes. Shall I tell you mine?”

Gendry raised his eyebrows, “If you would like to, I will hear it.” He wondered if the others were looking for him. Unexpectedly the woods became drenched in mist and he couldn’t see the campsite at all, nor could he hear any voice but the old woman’s creaking one.

He wondered if she was the Crone. There were tales of the Gods walking amongst mortals, could it be that she was a God?

Her teeth were mossy, “I am Maggy.”

“It is a pleasure to you meet you, m’lady,” Gendry said, trying to remember if he said the title correctly. He suspected not.

She clucked her tongue at him, “Ah, see you are a good lad, I like you. You may ask me three questions if you’d like. I can tell your fortune.”

“My fortune?” Gendry blinked, “I don’t need to know that.”

Her smile grew and her eyes twinkled and Gendry felt as if he gave the right answer, “Then I shall give you a gift, instead. I can guarantee that it will help you on your journey.”

“To Lannisport?”

Maggy shook her head and red leaves fell out of her white hair, “No, beyond that.” She walked up to him and pulled a cloak out from . . . nowhere.

A mummer’s trick, Gendry decided.

Her thin mouth was full of humor and sadness, it reminded him of his mother, “Take this cloak, Gendry Waters. It will allow you to become invisible.”

It was soft like silk and it felt odd against his rough calluses, “This is as soft as a lady’s hand, um,” Gendry paused, “uh, m’lady.”

“Shall you feel my hands, Gendry Waters? I assure you they feel nothing like that,” the old woman smirked, “And I can assure you that your lady’s hands will feel nothing like this. This cloak is water running over a fine stone, it is the feel of sunshine on a face, and your lady has nothing to do with sunshine or fine stones. Her hands will feel like leather and hide, like the paws of a wolf. But this cloak is nicer than any Myrish lace or Dornish silk, although I suspect that your tradesmen beyond this mist would quarrel with my claim. But I warn you, Gendry Waters, do not show this to just anyone. Only two you should show this to, one before your journey and one after.”

“How- how should I know them?” Gendry asked, feeling stupid. This was just a fancy cloak, nothing invisible about it. He could see the circular patterns on it as well as he could see his own hand.

Maggy cackled, “One is a statue made flesh and the other will be your wife. I should hope you keep no secrets from your lady wife.”

“I hope I won’t when I have one, m’lady.”

Her golden eyes danced in amusement, “You are a good lad, Gendry Waters,” she said, backing away into the mist, “A very good lad.”

 The clouds swallowed her and it was as if she had never existed. The mist followed her path, and sunlight soon met the ground through the trees, creating shadows on the green grass. Gendry winced at the brightness of it all.

“Oi, Gendry, are you still pissing?” Bronn called out from beyond, “Or are you taking a shit too?”

Gendry could hear the other men laughing by the road and wondered how long they thought he was gone. It felt as if hours had passed by talking to the old woman. Was she a witch or a god? He had heard of such things in the songs and stories the bards sang but had never thought it would happen to him.

The cloak was still in his hands, soft and glittery in the sunlight. He examined the glittery bits closely and it looked as if there were tiny pieces of metal sewn into the cloak. He wondered how a seamstress would manage that. Could a seamstress even do that?

“C’mon you lazy arse, get in here before I drag you back,” Bronn yelled, “Or better yet, leave your bastard arse.”

Gendry wrapped the cloak up, and placed it in the bag he carried around with him at all times. It held his coins but not much else, and Gendry had been afraid to leave it anywhere.

“I’m coming,” Gendry called out as he lifted the bag and ran back to the road.

The men laughed at him some more before helping him onto the cart, making japes at his expense. Gendry smiled and laughed with them, touching his bag every few moments to make sure what he saw hadn’t been a waking dream.

That his life wasn’t as dire as he thought.

He could have a home.


	10. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon meets trouble.

_**Jon** _

* * *

 

The forest reminded Jon Snow of the tales he had heard from Old Nan years ago, when his father’s shadow still loomed over him, when Robb and Theon laughed together, when he still had sisters.

He wasn’t so sure he liked the forest much.

The cold winds stung - not even his furs could hide him from its bite. Even though he and his men were heading south, it seemed as though no one informed the weather. Jon was promised bright summers and hot breezes, and was greeted only with dark woods and shattering winds.

The men Bran sent with him didn’t help ease Jon’s worries. They were boys and old men, but Bran couldn’t afford to send out the best. He needed them in Winterfell.

The Long War had taught them that much.

He watched as Pyp and Grenn practiced their swordplay and cringed. They were the only men Jon’s age in the caravan, but they didn’t fight like it. Jon had tried to teach them how to fight ever since they were found hiding in the crypts, scrounging for food like rats.

Rickon had been the one to find them, always scurrying about the grounds of Winterfell like a wolf looking for his meal. He was a wild boy who spoke wild tales so at first no one believed poor Rickon about the men who lived in the Stark crypts that feasted on bones and souls. Only Bran, still being a boy himself, became curious and ordered Hodor to take him down to the crypts where he discovered Pyp and Grenn eating, not bones or souls, but the chicken that had gone missing the night before.

Jon hadn’t been sure to whether to be astonished or amused when Bran sent the men to Jon to be trained as men-at-arms. It was a smart move - they needed men, even peasants who knew nothing about fighting was better than nothing. But it still pained Jon to watch Pyp and Grenn hold their sparring swords all wrong. However, he was too exhausted to think about correcting them. After traveling all day, the cold, hard ground felt like as soft as a featherbed.

Sleep reached him quickly. 

And just as quickly, it ended.

“This one’s a pretty one,” someone was saying, and Jon opened his eyes to see a red-haired girl staring at him. Jon quickly sprang to his feet and reached for his sword but the girl laughed.

“No need to do that, we’re just breaking our fast with your men,” she smiled wide and Jon noticed that her teeth poked out of her mouth, “Join us.”

He surreptitiously looked around the campsite, but found nothing too alarming. All the men were up, chatting with the newcomers. The red-haired girl’s party looked to be more wildling than northern, grasping poorly made daggers and spears, dressed in rough furs. But the Stark men seemed to find nothing out of place.

With reluctance, Jon let go of his sword. The girl continued to grin at him, apparently finding him endlessly amusing, “You think you know everything don’t you?” she asked, while leading him to the rest of their men, “I can see on your face that you think you know our story.”

“You’re wildlings,” he commented, not willing to elaborate.

“That much is true,” she acknowledged, her smile disappearing, “And you’re some noble’s brat.”

Jon didn’t know whether to smile or frown, “That much is true.” She glanced at him with suspicion then, but was unable to reply when one of her men spotted her.

“Ygritte! Stop trying to get yourself stolen by the boy. He looks too decent and noble for the likes of you,” he laughed, his belly shaking. He was as red-haired as Ygritte, and Jon wondered if he was the girl’s father.

The girl didn’t seem bothered by the man’s comments, instead slyly grinning back at the other man, “You would know all about noble beasts, wouldn’t you, Tormund?” 

Tormund barked a laugh, but Jon ignored their banter and sat down with Pyp and Grenn, who were happily slurping down something that Jon couldn’t name.

“Eat boy,” another man ordered, his gaze dark, “This road is long and winter is coming.”

Jon snapped his neck to stare at him, and was disturbed to spot a knowing smile.

_It’s all right,_ Jon thought _, the Stark emblems are on all of us, to mark us Bran’s men._ But this didn’t make him feel any safer.

“Shall I sing us a song?” the dark man asked, his smile growing, “I am a well known bard in the northern houses.” He pulled out his lute and began to pluck at it. Jon could hear the beginnings of _Brave Danny Flint_.

“I haven’t heard of you,” Pyp replied without preamble, “Wouldn’t you have sung at the Stark’s if you were truly that good.”

“I expect I’m about to sing for a Stark now.”

Grenn chortled, “Jon’s no Stark. He’s as much of a bastard as you are, I suspect.”

The bard glanced back at Jon with a terrible smile, “I am no bastard, I assure you. My name is not Snow.”

“Then what is it?” Pyp asked.

“It’s Mance Rayder.”

Before Jon could even pull out his sword from its sheath, Ygritte had her dagger on his neck. The other men in Jon's group were just as surprised by the sound of metal, almost every man being surrounded by a wildling. 

“The King beyond the Wall, then?” Jon asked as delicately as he could with a dagger on his throat.

Mance Rayder smirked, “The bastard Stark, then?”

The metal pressed hard against Jon’s skin and he could almost taste it. He knew that it would only take one mistake for his blood to be spilt on southern ground.

And he couldn’t let that happen.  Not with his men’s lives at stake. Not with Arya’s and Sansa’s.

“What is it you want, your Grace?”

Mance Rayder laughed outright, “I don’t want titles like that from _you_ , boy.”

Ygritte eased her stance and Jon wondered if he could take her down, “Then what do you want?”

Mance Rayder strummed his lute with an easygoing grace that almost annoyed Jon, “Why, the same as you.”

It took Jon a moment to discern what that could be, “Dead Lannisters,” he ventured.

Mance Rayder tutted, “While that would be very nice,” his smile grew darker, “I’d like Val back. She is my wife’s sister after all.”

Jon frowned and thought carefully of the hostages at the Rock, “Val was the wildling girl you sent to Tywin Lannister when his demands reached you.”

Mance nodded, “She was a good girl to volunteer herself for such a thing. We couldn’t handle another attack from his men, not even with giants on our side. Truly, we would had left her to her new southron life, but the whispers of magic reached even beyond the wall, and since we know the perils of magic better than any of your kind, we have decided to come for her.”

“We’re stealing her back,” Ygritte declared. Jon imagined that she was grinning at the thought.

“Yes, we are,” Mance agreed, before looking into Jon Snow’s eyes, “And you, son of Eddard Stark, are going to help us.”

Jon thought quickly, “I do not know if I can agree to this.”

Mance didn’t blink, “Very well, that is your choice. My choice would be to kill you if you don’t agree. I need allies not enemies and I would rather you help us than the other option.”

“And you couldn’t have asked us this without placing a dagger on my throat?”

Ygritte snorted but Mance paid her no mind, “We could, but we like to do things our way. Your southern talking doesn’t always work.”

“I’m a northerner.”

“Everything below the wall is south,” Mance corrected, as if Jon was a simple boy.

Jon clenched his jaw. “My sisters need saving too,” he retorted, trying to reign in his anger, “They’re in the same tower, in the same situation as your goodsister.”

The older man smiled, “Which is why when we discovered that you left for the Rock that it’d be better to meet up with you. It’s always easier to win with larger numbers. Isn’t that what we learned in The Long War? After all if we had joined up together against the Lannister forces, perhaps this wouldn’t have happened at all.”

Jon swallowed. He had told Robb to consider talking to the wildlings, but Robb hadn’t listened, instead preferring to listen to Roose Bolton’s ideas. Robb was a good man and a good soldier and even a good leader and King, but when he made mistakes, they were calamitous ones.

“Do you agree to our terms, Jon Snow? Do you agree to work together to save our families? Or do you agree to die here. It wouldn’t be a terrible death, Ygritte would make sure it was clean and your own men would be treated just as well,” Mance said sincerely.

Jon thought of Sansa, whose childhood dreams had been dashed away as soon as she was sent to the Lannisters, and how she must be suffering now. And Arya, who he had let play with his stupid daggers and weapons when she could barely hold a kitchen knife. It was stupid of him to do that then, when she was so young, but still it had filled him with some sort of proud glee. He had to save them. He couldn’t leave them to Lannisters.

He thought of his father and his death. He thought of Robb.

“I do agree to your terms as I hope you will agree to mine.”

Mance looked amused, “And what are these terms, Lord Snow.”

Jon frowned, “That we shall not turn on each other like this again in the entirety of our journey to and from that Lannister hell-hole. We shall not hide information from each other and we shall not do more harm than necessary.”

Mance’s grin widened, “Fair terms, Lord Snow,” Jon bit his lip to keep from balking, “I shall think on it for now. Release them,” he ordered and Jon grabbed his throat immediately, suddenly saying thankful prayers to the old gods for sparing them this fate.

Ygritte knelt down by his side and watched him, “I wouldn’t have made it painful,” she commented, “You wouldn’t have felt it.”

“I know,” Jon said, catching her eye, “and I’m grateful for it.”

She shook her head at him, frowning at him the way Lady Catelyn always did, “You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! It might be a while until the next update because I'm about to move across the country so I expect that the next chapter will not come out for quite a while. 
> 
> But as a little preview, I will tell you that the next chapter's POV will be everyone's favorite squire Podrick Payne!


	11. Podrick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Podrick discovers a scheme. Or so he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this took a little longer than expected! I moved in to my new place last week but internet wasn't installed until today. Which was very stressful for me for a lot of reasons.  
> But now I have it. Yay.  
> And without further ado, here is the chapter. I hope you enjoy it.

**_Podrick_ **

* * *

 

Podrick despised going to the Tower of the Hand, where Lord Baelish reigned. The Hand had little power, Tywin didn’t like to share after all, but Lord Baelish fought for every inch of power he possessed.

The man frightened Podrick, although the squire revealed none of this to either Prince Jaime or Prince Tyrion. He knew Prince Jaime would laugh at him and that Prince Tyrion would smile wryly at his suspicions. Plus, neither of them liked Lord Baelish much. They often called the Hand his most hated (and popular) nickname, “Littlefinger” right to the Hand’s face. Lord Baelish would always continue to simper and smile, but his eyes always darkened with a look. It was a frightening look, one that Podrick had seen most recently on the rapers that Prince Jaime had castrated on their journeys around the country. Littlefinger was a man that thirsted for control and power over others and it was hard not to fear a man like that.

But that was no secret, Podrick knew. Petyr Baelish, although a son of a minor, loyal bannerman of King Tywin's, had grown up in the Riverlands as a "guest" of the Tully's. He only returned to King Tywin’s banners when The Long War began. Everyone in Tywin’s employ had heard the rumors – the ones that said that Lord Baelish was the Hand only because he brought the North and the Riverlands to their knees. By setting up the marriage of Jeyne Westerling and Robb Stark, the frightful man had created a chain of events that led to the North's defeat.

Although, somehow, the Starks still were unaware of his betrayal. Perhaps the rumors froze in the cold wilderness, Podrick didn’t know. The journey north was long and hard and perhaps the truth died on the Kingsroad.

It didn’t matter. What mattered was that Lord Baelish held little power despite being the Hand of the King. And everyone knew that Littlefinger wanted more. He always wanted more.

The Hand had opened his door with distrust and unease, but allowed Podrick inside once he saw that it was him and not an armed guard. “Tell me, why is Jaime Lannister sending me his squire?” Lord Baelish sneered at Podrick.

Podrick stammered, uncomfortable under the older man’s gaze, “I believe you mean Prince Jaime, my Lord Hand, and I was sent to deliver this letter to you. It’s from Lady Stark of-of Win-Winterfell.”

Lord Baelish didn’t blink at Podrick’s stammering, “Very well then, she’s probably trying to barter for her girls again.”

Podrick bowed awkwardly and handed the letter to Lord Baelish. The older man glanced at it, pulling the ribbon that held it together apart, carefully examining it for – well, Podrick couldn’t discern what exactly the older man was looking for, but it seemed important.

Podrick wondered if Lord Baelish expected him to leave, now that the letter was delivered, but Prince Jaime told him to stay put and help Lord Baelish. Even if the Hand didn’t want any help.

Podrick wasn’t stupid, despite what others may have thought. He knew Prince Jaime wanted him to spy on Lord Baelish. Although he wasn’t sure how this could be accomplished.

“You boy, sit here,” Lord Baelish said pointing at a chair beside an oak desk. Podrick sat obediently, while Lord Baelish continued to speak, “I am writing a response and once I am done, you shall send it off on a raven immediately. “

Podrick nodded, but Lord Baelish had already swept to the other side of the desk, sitting and writing, his brow furrowed.

Podrick had heard some serving girls call Lord Baelish handsome. They would coo and giggle, not at all caring that the Hand ran several brothels down in Lannisport. It just made him more attractive to some of the women as those businesses made him as rich as his Lannister king... if not richer.

However, in Podrick’s opinion, although he recognized that it didn’t matter much, Lord Baelish’s features were too sharp and his eyes were too cold for the man to be considered handsome. But Podrick felt similar about Princess Cersei, who was considered the most beautiful woman in Westeros. That was a title that he secretly believed belonged to Sansa Stark . . . a name that Lord Baelish was now scrawling onto his letter to Lady Stark.

Podrick glanced down quickly, fearing that he saw something he shouldn’t have.

But Lord Baelish didn’t notice Podrick’s lingering stare or at least pretended not to. After another few moments, Lord Baelish sealed the letter with hot wax, the imprint looking similar to the mockingbird pin that Lord Baelish wore on his clothes.

“Here,” Lord Baelish said, handing the letter over to Podrick, “Take this and go to the ravens.” Podrick took it, but Lord Baelish grabbed Podrick’s wrist. It hurt but Podrick resisted pulling away. Lord Baelish’s breath smelled like mint and his smile looked poisonous, “If you break the seal, I shall know and you shall hang for it. It would be treasonous to read the Hand’s letters, would it not?”

Podrick acknowledged this with a mute nod, chills running down his back, and Littlefinger let him go, smirking.

Podrick bowed and left as quickly as possible. Littlefinger’s chilly voice followed him down the stone halls and Podrick couldn’t help but be a little afraid, even though he couldn’t hear what the man was saying.

But still Podrick looked down at the sealed letter once he reached the ravens. Could Sansa be in trouble? Was Littlefinger letting Lady Stark know?

Or was Littlefinger being slippery again and betraying not only the Starks but the Lannisters too?

Podrick felt the wax mockingbird seal. It was still hot.

Perhaps he should take the letter to Prince Jaime and let him decide.

“Podrick? What are you doing here?”

Podrick turned and saw Lord Varys, who was wearing maester’s robes. He seemed unconcerned that Podrick noticed him in such a costume, smiling as Podrick bowed to him. The bow wasn't well done, Podrick knew, but it was as proper as he could manage under such circumstances.

“My Lord,” Podrick said, trying not to stumble over his words, “I’ve been serving Lord Baelish.”

Lord Varys nodded, but Podrick sensed that the other man already knew this, “I see. Is that why you’re carrying his letter?”

Podrick grasped the letter tighter. While Lord Varys had always been kind to him, he suspected that the man wouldn’t necessarily do the right thing with the letter. However, Podrick still wasn’t sure what the right thing to do was, perhaps it was to just send the letter off to Winterfell? Or perhaps it was something else?

Lord Varys coughed lightly and Podrick realized he hadn’t responded. Blushing, he spoke, “Um, yes, that’s why.”

“To whom is he writing to at such a late hour?”

Podrick swallowed. Lord Varys was the Master of Whispers, and it was likely that he already knew that Catelyn Stark was writing to Lord Baelish, and that Lord Baelish was writing to Catelyn Stark. But perhaps he didn’t know everything?

But was that a good thing or bad thing?

“I couldn’t say, my lord,” Podrick lied, feeling like a fool as he did so. Lord Varys would see right through him, he knew.

“I see,” Lord Varys intoned, “I suspect it’s Lady Catelyn Stark since I know the two, dear old friends keep in contact with each other. Strange isn’t it, considering that our two nations were once at war?”

Podrick nodded, unable to speak.

“Did you perchance see anything in the letter worth mentioning?” Lord Varys asked with another odd smile.

“I – I did not, my lord,” Podrick said, trying to convince himself that he wasn’t lying. Seeing Sansa’s name wasn’t necessarily worth mentioning, considering that Lord Baelish was writing to Sansa’s mother.

“How disappointing,” Lord Varys said, smiling as if it didn’t bother him at all, “I expect it was a simple matter between friends though.”

Podrick nodded and bowed, eager to leave the conversation. But Lord Varys didn’t let him leave, “I recommend that you take that to Prince Tyrion, before you send it out to Lady Catelyn.”

“My lord?”

Lord Varys’ awful smile didn’t abate, “I know you don’t trust me, Podrick, for good reasons, but you shouldn’t trust Lord Baelish either. For even better ones.”

Podrick nodded again, feeling even more nervous than he did before. Perhaps Prince Tyrion would know the best thing to do with such a letter. But if Lord Baelish found out…

“I can assure you, Podrick, that Lord Baelish already knows you’re going to give the letter to one of the Princes. He’ll send his true letter later tonight. I shall catch him in the act though, do not worry,” Lord Varys paused thoughtfully, “You should mention all this to Tyrion.”

“I will, my lord,” Podrick muttered, about to bow again before Lord Varys waved his hand.

“The bowing can stop, Podrick. Go to Prince Tyrion and I shall go visit my dear friend.”

The darkness swallowed Lord Varys up before Podrick could attempt another bow and soon the eunuch left for the the darker depths of the castle. The hallway was empty now excepting, of course, Podrick himself. The light flickered above him and Podrick sighed, weary of all the intrigue.

He looked down at Lord Baelish’s letter and tore at it a little. And then a little more. It wasn’t long before the seal was broken and Podrick was greedily reading the letter, desperate to see why Sansa’s name was in the missive.

> _Cat,_
> 
> _It is not a secret that the girls are in danger, so do not worry about my safety, everyone in Westeros already knows what I told you._
> 
> _I only think of your girls’ safety, the poor girls locked up in a shambling tower - it’s a shame that there isn’t a way to let them out, but my information tells me that they’re locked up tighter than the Maiden’s legs._
> 
> _I haven’t even been able to see them in weeks, despite advising the King to let me do so. I even appealed to his logic as Tywin is a man of logic more than heart as you of all people know._
> 
> _But he did not listen, which does not surprise you, I’m sure. You warned me about serving the Lannisters, years ago, when we were just children playing in the grassy fields. You told me to stay with your family and serve them as my mother’s family had years before. If I only I listened to you, Cat. Where would we be if I did?_
> 
> _Sansa looks just like you when you were a girl. It makes me feel as if we were together again, when I catch a glimpse of her through the tower windows. Once Tywin solves his little mystery of the shoes, I am sure he’ll sell her off first to the highest bidder, some grubby little hedge knight who will never let her see the North again._
> 
> _I am sorry to see your fears for her become true._
> 
> _Your eternal friend,_
> 
> _Petyr_
> 
>  

Podrick stared at the letter, bewildered by its meaning. Lord Baelish addressed the Lady Catelyn as if she was a former lover instead of a childhood friend. It was entirely inappropriate for him to be writing to her like this. And was this Lord Baelish’s true letter or just the letter that he expected Podrick to send?

Lord Baelish’s words about Sansa worried Podrick either way. Podrick knew that the girl would have to marry some hedge knight, of course, but it was the manner that Lord Baelish wrote that made Podrick’s arm hairs raise up in alarm. As if he was trying to scare the Lady Catelyn about Sansa’s fate.

Why on earth would he do that, Podrick wondered, gripping the letter tightly in his hands. Why would he talk only of Sansa and not of Arya? Surely their mother wished to hear of both of them?

Why _Sansa_?

It was that question that made Podrick march to Prince Tyrion’s rooms, unwilling to release his grip on the letter, unwilling to believe that Littlefinger’s interest in Sansa was anything but horrible tidings for the girl.

Prince Tyrion would know what to do, Podrick decided, recalling Lord Varys’ words about the matter.

He had to.

Who else would?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Littlefinger, as always, is taking advantage of a shitty situation and making it shittier/turning it to his advantage. 
> 
> If you can tell, I'm definitely not a fan of him. I hate him with a passion most reserve for, well, Joffrey. This is just fair warning for any readers who may like him as he becomes more important to the story as we go on.


	12. Arya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya fights.

**_Arya_ **

* * *

 

One more inch and she could be free. One more inch and she could move a little farther… she had to.

Arianne scoffed at Arya from her bed, “You can’t move any farther than that, little girl, none of us can.”

Arya ignored her, reaching for the windowsill. If only she could climb out the window like she had done months ago, without anyone knowing about it. She had snuck out and visited Lannisport all by herself, without any guards that day. She must do it again. Arya couldn’t live in this massive room with eleven other girls any longer. She’d kill them with Sansa’s needles if this stupid illness or magic or whatever it was tried to make her stay even one more minute.

“Arya! Stop that!” Sansa cried out, attempting to move towards her sister and wincing while she did so.

“No! I have to get out of here and they barred the stupid door!” Arya replied, looking over her shoulder just in time to see her sister reach out for her.

The other girls watched with variations of amusement and worry although none but Brienne of Tarth tried to help Sansa reach Arya. But Arya only had to tiptoe one more step to reach the window and then she’d be almost free. 

If only her feet didn’t hurt so damn much. The burning sensation made her eyes water and she tried to ignore it. “Why do we have to dance every night?” Arya protested when her foot spasmed and she fell on the floor with a loud thump. She would have cried if she wasn’t so used to the pain. Although it did worsen every day . . . which is why none of the girls even moved from their beds.

Except, of course, at night.

“We have to,” Val, the princess of the wildlings, muttered, only loud enough for Arya to hear, as her bed was the closest to the window.

 _But why did they have to_ , Arya begged silently, _why did they all have such an impulse to go through the trapdoor, only at night, and dance away their lives. Why did she love it so much at night, when she had never loved dancing before?_

Sansa, whose cheeks were stained with tears that probably stemmed from the pains in her feet, grabbed Arya off the floor and pulled Arya towards her. Arya didn’t resist, knowing it was no use. Even if she had made it to the window…

Well, it was unlikely that she would be able to climb down the tower in her bare feet even when she was well.

Brienne sighed over the two of them. She was crouched on all fours, looking quite ridiculous, “Sansa, shall I request milk of the poppy?”

Sansa shook her red mane, “No, I’ll be all right, it hurts more than it did yesterday, that’s all.”  _Of course_ , Arya thought grimly, that’s all it was, pain that worsened every day. Soon, even Arya wouldn’t be able to move from her bed. Soon, she’d be stuck like the rest of them.

A knock on the door on the far side of the room interrupted Arya’s dark thoughts, and in walked Prince Tyrion, the Imp, who seemed ill at ease with the state of the room. Perhaps it was because all of the girls, save Arya, were still in their nightclothes.

Or perhaps it was the missive that he held in his hands.

“Good afternoon, I have come to speak to Princesses Sansa and Arya,” he announced with a heavy smile.

Asha spoke up first, “You might want to walk to them,” she suggested, pointing a finger to where Arya and Sansa were located.

Tyrion followed her line and spotted them, frowning as he did so. Brienne got up and took a step back, landing on Val’s bed, relief apparent on her ugly face, so much so that Arya was jealous that Brienne was on a soft bed while she and Sansa still sat upon the hard stone floor.

“My ladies,” Tyrion greeted once he reached them, “Would it be all right if I asked some of the guards to pick you up and carry you into the hallway?”

Sansa looked stunned by the idea but all Arya could think about was seeing another room besides this one, “Yes!” she exclaimed.

Tyrion raised an eyebrow at her, but Arya couldn’t help smiling, while Sansa just frowned, still trying to be a proper lady _. A proper lady stuck in a stupid tower_ , Arya thought.

The two guards were large and strong and grabbed the two girls by their sides. Margaery and her cousins giggled when they came in, Elinor even throwing them smiles, as if she didn’t do that enough at night, when the men in the glass forest clamored for her as a dancing partner.

As soon as the door behind them closed, Arya breathed a sigh of relief. Even though this was just a hallway, it felt like freedom.

But they weren’t done being carried.

“Hey, where are you taking us?” Arya demanded after the men went down the tower steps. Sansa looked just as terrified as Arya felt, as neither girl could imagine this being a good thing any longer. 

“No worries, my ladies, you shall be safe, and after this conversation you will be back to live in that room you call home,” Tyrion japed. He stood behind the guards, following them.

Arya scowled and wished she could see the Imp, and possibly kick him for telling them nothing useful, if only she could reach him. Stupid Lannisters, thinking themselves above the rest.

Just because they won the stupid war with trickery.

Arya didn’t remember her father or eldest brother. She was very young when the war first broke out, her mother had only just given birth to Rickon when their father was assassinated by Lannister hirelings, and Robb was only fourteen, the same age Arya was now, when it started.

And everyone knew that Robb would have beaten the Lannisters into the ground with the strength of his army if it were not for him meeting the Westerling girl, a girl who was planted by some Lannister devil. Suspicions about who arranged the meeting varied from Lord Varys to Littlefinger to the Imp and so Arya trusted none of them. She could only remember her brother’s laugh and how he picked her up off the ground when she tired, but that was enough for her to hate her captors for hurting him. He was her brother and so she loved him.

Cersei was the worst of them, in Arya’s opinion. She hated the old princess, who thought herself above even her own family members. Any chance Arya could take to spite Cersei, she took, until her feet started to pain her, anyways. But Arya didn’t like Jaime or Tyrion either, although she knew most of the girls found Jaime handsome and charming, and that they all found Tyrion a bit funny. Sansa treated them both with a poisonous type of kindness while Arya barely tried to disguise her disgust with them. 

The King was the only one she had begrudging respect for, and she couldn’t even decide why. Perhaps it was because he let her ask questions, perhaps it was because he was the closest thing to a father she had, she didn’t know or care.

She would still kill him if it meant escaping the Lannisters and saving her and her sister from that horrible tower.

At least, she thought she would. But perhaps she couldn’t. Arya had never killed anyone before, she had beaten them into the dirt, of course, at the training grounds, but as to actually siphon the life out of their eyes… no, she had never done that.

Soon she was dropped out of her musings as the guards dropped her on the floor. Arya scowled at them and rubbed her backside. It hurt. Sansa was let more gently down and the guard she was being carried by helped her onto a chair. Arya glared at him and he glared back.

 _Of course_ , Arya thought bitterly. After all, she was the little girl who had beaten them in the training grounds months before, despite being years younger, a girl, and shorter than both by at least a foot. And Sansa was just so pretty and fragile, they’d treat her well in hope for a stupid smile. Although, they wouldn't get one.

“Arya, are you all right?” Sansa asked, her blue eyes wide in concern. Arya shrugged and shifted on the ground, unwilling to admit her butt was sore. Instead, she glanced around the room, looking for an escape. It seemed as if they were at the bottom of the tower, in the one room down that one hallway that was always locked. And no matter how hard Arya had tried, she could never get the door open. And all the stupid door was hiding was a table and some chairs and some books that looked like they were written in High Valyrian. Arya hated her lessons in Valyrian, although Daenerys was annoyingly good at it. 

Tyrion tutted when he reached them. His face wasn’t far from hers now that she was on the ground. He truly was short, “This is a princess that you allowed to be dropped on the floor like a sack of potatoes, I believe you should grab her a proper chair and help her onto it, like a good knight of the Rock.”

Arya rolled her eyes, but allowed herself to be lifted onto another chair. It was a hard wooden one, and it creaked like the floorboards underneath her bed, but she knew she shouldn’t complain. It was softer than the floor at least.

“You can leave, Sers,” Tyrion nodded at them, hopping onto his own (cushioned) seat that was situated behind the dark wooden table. Arya couldn’t tell what kind of wood it was - she just knew it wasn’t weirwood.

Weirwood would have been nice, Arya thought, trying to recall the wood that her father’s throne had been made of, and failing to do so.

“Now to the reason I brought you here,” Tyrion started, smiling at them jovially. As if he was their friend. 

He was not their friend, so Arya stared at him, “You didn’t bring us. Your men did that.”

Tyrion’s smile edged away, “Ah yes, well.”

“Arya, be quiet,” Sansa whispered, although Arya would have been surprised if Tryion couldn’t hear her sister’s whispers.

“Well,” Tyrion cleared his throat, obviously still uncomfortable, “the reason I have brought you here is that we believe that it’d be best for us to know if you’d had any special contact with Lord Baelish.”

“Littlefinger?” Arya asked, while Sansa turned and stared at her, her mouth open wide.

“ARYA!”

“What?” Arya shrugged, “That’s what everyone calls him.”

Tyrion’s jaw twitched, the way Brienne’s did when she tried not to laugh at Prince Jaime, “This is quite true, Princess Sansa. There is no need to yell at Princess Arya.”

Sansa opened her mouth to speak to the Imp, but Arya spoke first, “He used to come to talk to Sansa. He tried to talk to me, but I never liked him. Sansa tolerated him though.”

“He knew our mother,” Sansa explained, turning red, “When they were children.”

Arya rolled her eyes before staring at her feet. They were quite useless even now, hanging off the chair. She wondered if this was how Bran felt when he lost the use of his legs. But he had been barely a child when he lost the use of his legs, he probably couldn’t even remember being able to walk.

Perhaps it was worse because Arya knew she could dance and climb and walk . . . but only at night, only in the special forest, in that special world where everything felt right and wonderful. Where magic lived and breathed. Where she was a true Princess of the North, wild and carefree and hungry for more.

“Has he tried speaking to you recently?” Tyrion asked Sansa.

Sansa shook her head, “No, Prince Tyrion. I haven’t seen him in months. He stopped visiting when the King asked everyone to leave us be.”

“Well, he has been writing to your mother, and it seems like he is sending her false information. Do you know anything about that?”

“What do you mean?” Arya asked, a frown appearing on her face. Littlefinger was lying to her mother?

She’d kill him.

Arya had many memories of Winterfell that she held tight in her heart, but there was a particular one that was her favorite, and it centered on her mother. Robb was there too in this memory, laughing at something Arya had said, but it was her mother’s indulgent, sweet smile that made Arya wish she was still with her family, instead of being stuck with Lannisters.

Winterfell was home and Arya desperately wanted to be there, surrounded with love, instead of being held captive in Casterly Rock.

Arya had friends in Casterly Rock . . . this was true. She loved her sister, and Asha, and Val, and Brienne. Even Margaery made Arya laugh on occasion (although Margaery’s cousins were a pain) and little Shireen was sweet and smart. Daenerys was interesting and intelligent and Arianne was hilarious and inspiring - Arya would miss all the princesses as if they were her trueborn sisters. Even the annoying ones.

But Arya wanted to go home. To her mother. To Jon. To Bran and Rickon.

To Winterfell.

“Lord Baelish seems to be neglecting certain truths in his letters to your mother, but we’re not entirely sure about -”

A voice interrupted him, “Are you spying on the Hand?” Sansa demanded, sounding shocked, although Arya wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t as if they didn’t grow up knowing that all the Lannisters and their men spied on one another.

Arya wondered if her father had spies when he was the King of the North. She doubted it.

He’d be alive if he had spies.

Tyrion’s face was grim, “We do what we have to do, Princess Sansa. Especially if that means protecting the realm.”

Arya rolled her eyes and Sansa didn’t even berate her for it this time. She was still staring, dismayed, at Tyrion, as if her world had just been fractured.

Arya suspected that Sansa still had hope that there was someone in this castle that was trustworthy, and that she had, mistakenly apparently, placed her hopes in stupid Littlefinger. Arya wished she could laugh at Sansa’s mistake, but she couldn’t.

Not when she had her own secret hopes as well.

Being rescued by her family being the stupidest and secretest one of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It might be a while until the next update! Just a warning. I'm hoping it won't be longer than 3 weeks. :)


	13. Catelyn II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn receives a letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "What is dead may never die, but rises again harder and stronger."
> 
> That quote is extremely relevant to this fanfic. I'm extremely sorry for the wait and I shall not make you wait any longer. My excuses are at the bottom of the page when you're ready to read them, but for now, enjoy the chapter!

**_Catelyn II_**

* * *

 

It seemed as if every letter from Petyr was bad news. 

Could Catelyn trust his words anymore? The Sansa in his letters wasn't the girl of hidden courage, but a frightened one who jumped at the slightest danger.

She had trusted Petyr her entire life, but something in this letter struck her as odd. 

Was it even from Petyr?

Or perhaps it was from someone else?

She suddenly wished that it was not so cold in Winterfell. The cold made her bones hurt as well as her heart. She didn't know if she could bear any more treachery or sadness. Catelyn could still see Robb every time she closed her eyes at night and it made her weep.

Her first child was gone forever because of betrayal. She couldn't lose two more to it.

She looked over the letter again, to determine if the words were true. 

And then she went to her King.

Bran was at his desk when she found him, the simple Hodor stood beside him looking eagerly out the window where she could hear Rickon's laughter echoing as well as the sound of wooden sticks. Her boy, her only child, all the rest were grown up, gone away... or dead.

Catelyn straightened her back, "Bran, I have more news."

" _Dark wings, dark words_ ," he muttered, sounding so old and so sad.

"It's from Petyr."

Bran bit his lip and nodded. He didn't look happy about her source, she noticed although she pretended not to see, "He says the Lannisters plan to marry Sansa off to the Imp, Tyrion Lannister..." although that wasn't all Petyr said, he had said so much more, but Catelyn knew that this would be the most pertinent to Bran. She didn't need to mention how Sansa and Arya and the other princesses wilted in their tower - just the threat of marriage to the Imp was enough to frighten Bran. Although what else could they do but wait for Jon Snow?

Especially if Petyr was being deceitful. 

"Why would they do that?" he asked, looking shocked, "I thought they were going to keep Sansa and Arya as hostages forever."

"I don't know, I don't understand. Perhaps he's being misled?" she said, not eager to share her worries of Petyr's inconsistencies. It wouldn't do any good to damage Petyr anymore in Bran's eyes. For what if her old friend was speaking the truth?

She continued, "Petyr says he wrote to me as soon as he heard, he barely addressed my other concerns about Arya and the ink splatters on the page indicate that he was in a hurry."

"Was it his handwriting?"

Catelyn looked over the letter again. It looked to be her childhood friend's hand, but one could never be certain. She repeated her thought to Bran and he frowned before calling for Hodor.

Hodor smiled happily as he picked Bran up. "Where are you going?" Catelyn asked, watching her son direct the half-giant out of the room.

"I'm going to send a letter of my own," Bran replied.

Catelyn followed Hodor's trail, dumbfounded, "You're what?" 

Evidently the surprise was in her voice, because Bran responded with some irritation, "I can't walk, Mother, I can still read and write. And I wrote a letter to Tywin Lannister a few weeks ago, when this was just beginning, I just had never sent it. And I think the time has come for me to send it now."

 _I can't lose you_ _too_ , she thought, but nodded at him. He was her King, he was in command... but that didn't mean she didn't have many questions, "May I ask what you said in the letter?"

"Of course, Mother," Bran said, his voice tired, “I won’t send it without your approval.”

Catelyn bit her tongue. Bran was growing up - but no, it was so much more than that. He was a man now, a King, she had to remember this, that despite his age, and the lack of whiskers on his chin, that Bran did not need to hear her thoughts at every moment.

But this was about Sansa and Arya. This was about her daughters.  

_ Family. Duty. Honor. _

Those were her words and she’d rather be damned to the Seven Hells than not try to find out what was happening, or going to happen, to her sweet girls. 

“Hodor,” Hodor said when they arrived at the end of the hall. Bran pointed down the staircase, “Do be careful, Hodor, I don’t want my head knocked off.”

“Hodor.”

Catelyn wished, for the millionth time that day, that Bran could walk again. She did not like his dependence on Hodor, it seemed like Bran could be ridiculed at any moment by his liege lords and the smallfolk that ran about the North, and a King shouldn’t be so easily ridiculed. Especially not a King who was about to send a letter to Tywin Lannister.

“Ow, Hodor, I told you to be careful!” Catelyn heard Bran say as they walked down the dim staircase, full of stone and unlit lanterns, but all Hodor said was name twice, sounding concerned about his King.

“Are you all right, Bran?” Catelyn asked, wishing that she was in front instead of behind so that she could see her son and his injury.

“I’m fine,” he replied, his voice harder than it had been with Hodor.

He doesn’t want me here anymore, Catelyn realized with sadness, _he loves me, but he doesn’t feel as if he needs me as his mother._

And maybe he didn't. 

“Mother, are you still following?” Bran asked. 

She realized she stopped moving and that Bran and Hodor had reached the bottom, “I’m sorry I’m almost there, Bran.” She lifted her skirts and lightly stepped down the stairwell faster than before. 

At the bottom there was Bran sitting on top of Hodor’s shoulders. For a moment, Catelyn was struck by how tall Bran looked, by how quickly he was growing into his man’s form, by how much he looked like her brother Edmure, but also how much he looked like Robb, and even Ned.

It was the eyes, she realized, he had the eyes of a King.

She smiled at her son and King, “Where to now?”

“Grand Maester Luwin has my letter hidden in his desk, he was the one who advised me to wait to send it.”

Let the Seven be kind to Grand Maester Luwin forever, Catelyn thought, and smiled again, “Then let’s see him.”

“I already sent the steward to fetch him here, I ran into him at the bottom of the staircase.” Bran looked sheepish and Catelyn sighed. Knowing Hodor and Bran they had probably literally ran into the steward while she was still in the stairwell.

Grand Maester Luwin showed up in the hall a few minutes later, and he was greeted to the site of Bran sitting on the ground - Hodor had begun to tire and couldn’t hold his King any longer. Catelyn and the Grand Maester exchanged silent looks for a moment - they had to find a better solution to Bran’s crippled legs than Hodor - but the Grand Maester quickly moved past it. 

“Your Grace,” he said, “I have it.”

“The letter?” Bran asked.

“Of course,” Grand Maester Luwin smiled, “what else would I have?”

Bran rolled his eyes and it was then that Catelyn remembered how young he was. Perhaps he was still a boy who needed her. She smiled at Bran but reached out for the letter. 

The Grand Maester handed it to her within a moment until Bran called out, “No, let me see it first.”

Catelyn had already touched the paper, the paper that would probably save or kill her daughters when the Grand Maester took it away from her and handed it to Bran.

“Bran,” she started to say, but quickly stopped. She could not speak without crying out, she knew.

Her son's eyes glanced over the page quickly and he nodded, his little face tight with worry. “It doesn't need to be changed,” he said firmly as he reached the paper out to Catelyn.

She grabbed the paper and read it with trepidation.

And for a moment she was stuck.

“I don’t understand what you intend to do…” she said, glancing over the paper again, feeling lost.

“I am reminding him that the terms of peace including keeping the women healthy and safe and it seemed that he was failing in this regard. I already know Dorne is intending to send him a similarly phrased letter -“

This surprised Catelyn. “You do? How?” 

“I wrote first to them and asked if they would join me when the time came.”

Catelyn blinked. The Prince of Dorne and Ned had never seen eye to eye on many things. Arianne was offered as a bride to Robb when they were both small children, but Ned had refused, confessing to Catelyn later that night, after they attempted to make another child, that he was not sure if could ever trust a thing that came out of the Prince’s mouth, that half of Doran's words seemed empty promises and hidden anger from the old war. The one that had changed many fates - almost as many as the Long War. 

The Long War didn’t change Ned’s feelings nor did it change Robb’s. Neither King had asked for Dorne’s help and Dorne did not ask the North for theirs in the fight against Tywin Lannister.

Catelyn wondered again why no Kingdom allied with one another, other than the Riverlands and the North, which only happened because of her own marriage to Ned. She looked at Bran with new eyes, feeling as though he might survive his warning to Tywin Lannister.  She almost wanted to grin at him, feeling giddy at the thought of allies.

Instead, she kept her frown. “When are they intending on sending their letter?” Catelyn questioned.

Bran smiled then, a true smile that reminded her of the days before he was crippled, when he was practically a babe in her arms, “They’re sending it with Oberyn Martell.”

“They’re what?” Catelyn's giddiness was replaced with trembling. 

Oberyn Martell would worsen the situation not better it. He was stuck on vengeances that had occurred long before the Long War had even occurred - his sister’s death was tragic but Catelyn could not abide by the thought that she might lose both of her daughters because of this madman’s rage. He was much too arrogant and reckless to be considered a valuable asset in this fight. Why couldn't Doran Martell see that? 

“They’re sending the Lannisters a gift -“

“Oberyn Martell is no gift,” Catelyn frowned although Bran ignored it.   


“Of course he’s not the gift, he’s the gift bearer. He’s bringing spices from Essos along with silks and Dornish wine. And when invited to dinner he shall hand over the letter from the Prince -“

“Do you not think that Tywin Lannister won’t arrange an accident for Oberyn Martell as soon as he sees that letter?” Her voice was as cold as the Wall, she knew, but she had to make Bran see the truth of it. 

“Oberyn Martell is sly, slyer than even Tywin Lannister, Mother.”

How did he know so much about Oberyn Martell? She was worried, “When did you start writing to the Martells, Bran?”

He flushed under her gaze and Maester Luwin stepped in, “It was my suggestion. Dorne and the North have much in common in these times.”

“When?” She demanded, not letting her glare falter.

Bran looked sheepish, “About a year ago.”

Catelyn wanted to tear something out. “Can we trust them?” she challenged, "Can we truly trust the Martells in this matter?"

“Do we have a choice?” Bran urged. “Pick me up, Hodor. We’re sending this letter now. Mother, give me the letter."

His words were a King's words but still she was unable to follow the command.  “Tywin Lannister will know you spoke to one another,” she said in a warning, wanting to tear the letter apart, “No matter if he sees your letter or the Dornish letter first, he will put the pieces together.”

Bran smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. They were dark and cold, “Good. Tywin Lannister should know that the North remembers.”

Catelyn shivered and she could swear she could hear Bran's direwolf Summer howling out in the Godswood. Winter is coming, she wanted to say, wanted to weep, but instead Maester Luwin said the words for her.

“Winter is coming, my King.”

Bran’s terrible smile didn’t abate, “For Tywin Lannister, most of all.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so my excuses for this delay are these: grad school was super busy and then by the time I had free time I felt so distant from the world of Asoiaf that I wasn't sure if I could even manage to write anything in-character or anything good at all. But I just finished rereading the first book and I'm in the middle of reading "The World of A Song of Ice and Fire" - both of which have given me ideas so I feel better about writing in this world again. 
> 
> Anyways as to the chapter itself, I feel some may have questions regarding stuff, but I'm hoping that most will be answered in later chapters, but feel free to ask away anyways! I'll try to answer! 
> 
> In other news, will try to have a new chapter updated between 1-3 weeks every time but this next month is going to be harsh-ing my vibe (#gradschool) so we'll see! It should ease up after April though. TBH, I'm just excited to be able to write in this world again.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter! (and it's my birthday in about an hour... there is no reason for you guys to know that I'm just in a good mood haha).


	14. Brienne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne dances and dreams.

**_Brienne_ **

* * *

“Are you cold?”

Brienne looked away from the glimmering ballroom and refocused her attention on the man holding her waist. Ser Hyle Hunt wasn’t a handsome man, at least he wasn’t the kind of man that she always found handsome, but his hands felt good on her figure. And he spoke to her with such a pretty lilt. She smiled shyly back at him, “No, I’m all right, Ser, thank you.”

His eyes sparkled and Brienne wondered if it was because of the glistening glass lights that hung around the ballroom or if his eyes were naturally that breathtaking. She wanted to sigh, but felt that she shouldn’t – she was a woman, not a silly girl like Megga or Elinor. Instead, she gazed around the room again, anything to avoid his piercing gaze.

The princesses twirled and spun around the room with the sort of grace that Brienne had only seen in the training yard, dodging each other’s partners, avoiding each other’s feet, and smiling as if the world would never end. If only this world didn’t, she grimaced. If the night didn’t end… then she could be almost beautiful forever.

“Shall we take another turn around the ballroom, my Princess?” Ser Hyle asked, the palm of his hand pressing against her back. She shuddered under his touch and moved away.

Even in a fantasyland, she couldn’t bear to think that a man wanted to touch her in such a way, even a plain man such as Ser Hyle. Brienne had been the target of too many foolish men to believe in any man’s sincerity.

Except, perhaps, Prince Jaime’s.

He was the worst of the lot when they first met. Jaime was embittered by the loss of his hand in the Long War and the constant talk of the dishonorable things he had done before and during the terrible war had not allayed his pains. Brienne had hated him as she had hated all of them, she was a young girl separated from her father and her heart was still stinging from the death of her older brother. She was alone, ugly, and taller than most men by the age of ten.

And Prince Jaime had been cruel about all of it.

Years later, she still didn’t understand why he had become kind to her after months and months of cruel words.

Perhaps it was because she was the only one who helped him up when he fell in the dirt one afternoon long ago. Perhaps it was that no one else would practice fighting with him, a cripple, other than a giant girl of one-and-ten. She suspected it was something else entirely, although she couldn’t fathom what it could be.

Especially when Ser Hyle looked at her like that.

She sighed with the sort of lightness that belonged to a much prettier girl and immediately felt foolish for doing such a thing. She was not the girl who sighed at a Ser’s pretty words, yet, here she was doing exactly that sort of thing. It frustrated her.

But all of her frustration quickly melted away as Ser Hyle held her tighter. Soon she could barely remember her name as they weaved through the room, edging the other couples and spinning until she could barely see the glorious ballroom.

And then the music ended with a clap of thunder. Ser Hyle shuddered the moment the thunder began, “Please, Princess, don’t go this time. It’s not good when you go.” He clasped her hand and kissed it, but she tore away from him, half-running to the exit. She had to go quickly… or else she would never sleep.

And they always did this, Brienne convinced herself, the men always say this. But each night they are fine and safe and whole. She spotted Sansa crying as her knight pleaded with her and was grateful to see that Margaery and Arya were pulling the girl away from him.

Princess Shireen was having a harder time escaping from her knight as several of the other knights that had been dancing with the ladies were holding onto the little girl too. Brienne ran over as quickly as her bare feet would allow her and grabbed Shireen by the waist.

“We will see you tomorrow night,” Brienne vowed to the men. It was not as if they had a choice, she reflected.

As they walked to the rowboats that would lead them home, she could not decide if they looked angry or heartbroken.

Perhaps it was both.

Shireen shivered, “I was afraid they would keep me with them, this time. It’s getting harder and harder to leave, haven’t you noticed?”

Brienne frowned, “I’m not sure I have…”

The younger girl glanced out of their rowboat and into the black water, “It is. I’m sure of it.” Her voice was soft but Brienne could feel the sharp fear behind it. It was the sort of fear that no young girl should ever experience and yet all of the princesses had - Brienne realized with a sort of sadness. 

The two princesses were quiet the rest of the way, as the rowboat glided them to the forest. Brienne helped little Shireen out, and made sure that the rest of the girls had made it back safely.

She was worried when she didn’t see Princess Val and Princess Daenerys but then the two women popped up beside her, from behind one of the glass trees, their eyes looking tired and worn.

“We were debating about trying to walk to the trapdoor early but the forest wouldn’t let us,” Daenerys stated, frowning as she did so. Her ivory hair looked even brighter under the glass branches and the dark sky.

Brienne looked towards the forest. Its silver branches gleamed although Brienne did not know how. There was no light above them – neither moon nor sun. Perhaps it came from the trees themselves, but that worried Brienne. Were these trees related to the gods of old? Or were they something more terrifying and ancient?

“Brienne, I think everyone is here.” Princess Margaery appeared by Brienne’s shoulder, looking quite pleased with herself. Brienne suspected that she gave her a knight a kiss before they all left the ballroom – Margaery did enjoy a good flirt. Brienne envied her ability to do that, but there wasn’t much for a girl as ugly as her. She winced, thinking about the Septa she had as a girl, before she was forced to go to Casterly Rock. Septa Roelle would never had imagined Brienne dancing with knights gracefully.

Then Brienne thought of Jaime and how he held her that last night before he left a year ago, and blushed thoroughly. She had told no one about it, especially not Sansa who seemed to think the two belonged together, as if they lived in a land of songs. Brienne wished songs were real. Perhaps then Jaime would -

It didn’t matter. Ser Jaime loved his sister - Brienne knew that well. The golden woman was the reason he left after all. And it was the reason that he held Brienne a year or so ago. Holding her so she was forced to listen to his sins, holding her so she would be forced to look at him. His green eyes were sad and angry and fearful all at once and she almost begged him to let her go. But instead, at the end, she held him, almost harder than he had been holding her. It had been nice to feel wanted even as a friend by a man, when so many had scorned her for being better than them.

But Jaime respected her. And cared about her. And perhaps, even…

“Brienne, we must move onwards,” Margaery whispered in Brienne’s ear. Brienne closed her eyes and nodded. Taking one step forward she watched as Princess Arianne of Dorne led the girls through the dark forest.

The branches guided them towards the trapdoor, one by one each branch would light up a little brighter and the girls would follow the line, almost in an unearthly procession down the shadowy path. Brienne stepped onto a leaf and winced.

The leaves were made of glass.

“Watch out, Shireen,” Brienne muttered, pulling the young girl beside her, “The leaves have begun to fall.”

Shireen nodded as if she understood, but still Brienne quickly heard an “ouch”. She sighed and picked up the younger girl and carried her the rest of the way, dodging the leaves as best she could.

Beyond the trees there was nothing but darkness. And within it there were terrible cries of pain and misery. Brienne hated this part of the journey, but it was as if no one heard it but her.

Or at least no one spoke of it. It was possible they were all too afraid.

The edge of the forest opened up to a meadow and above them was a ceiling. The sky was no more and even as Brienne looked back towards where the castle they had danced in she could see nothing.

Arianne reached up and grabbed hard, bringing down the stepladder and one by one the girls climbed up.

Brienne couldn’t see a thing as she climbed up, nor could she hear the feet of the girls above or below her, but she knew they were there. It was as if the body did not even exist, just the mind.

She took a moment to breathe it all in and soon felt that she lost a little of herself as she breathed out. Brienne could almost see it floating away into the darkness, a soft shade of blue swirling about, as she climbed up and up and up and then - suddenly, her fingertips touched the grainy hardwood floors. She pulled herself up and with a grateful grunt limped over to her bed.

And then she slept, knowing full well that she had to sleep now if she was to sleep at all. That soon she would once again be awake.

For so long her short sleep had been dreamless, ever since they had begun dancing in the evenings. Perhaps the dancing and the ballroom and the forest of glass were actually dreams, although her feet ached so merrily every morning that the castle and the forest could be nothing but reality. 

But _this_ , this was a dream, Brienne realized as soon as she fell into it. Panicked, she tore her way through the green darkness until she began to see faces - faces that she hadn’t seen since she was but a child wishing to be a knight and a lady, not yet aware that she could not be either.

But the faces of her girlhood all disappeared until there was only Renly. Renly Baratheon, the boy, no the _man_ , for he had declared himself a King. And a beautiful and good King of Storm's End he had been before he was murdered by his own kin. She had loved him with all of her heart as a girl for he was the only man who had ever been kind to her, “Why haven’t you saved us?” he asked now, his black hair alit as if the stars above were his shadow, “Why have you betrayed me? Why do you sit and jape with Lannisters and the daughters of my enemies?”

Brienne reached out to him and begged for him to stay, begged for him to understand, _Shireen is just a girl,_ _Brienne pleaded_  and begged and begged and _begged_ but his edges softened and soon his whole face and body disappeared into the green darkness before she could touch him. And then as soon as she stopped reaching, and began to hope for an end to this nightmare, her father appeared before her, looking as tall as a giant. At least Brienned assumed it was her father. The man was broader than even Brienne, whose shoulders were wider than most men's, and he had a kindly smile with bright blue eyes ( _sapphires,_ she thought wildly), but she couldn’t remember what her father truly looked like, it had been so long since she had last laid eyes on him.

She had been only a girl of nine when she had been given away to Tywin Lannister.

“Brienne,” he asked with tears in his eyes, “Why aren’t you fighting?”

 _Fighting what?_ She tried to ask but soon realized she was unable to speak. She clawed at her throat and croaked, panicking as her voice sank into her bowels, but her father didn’t listen, only cried, “You must fight, you’ve always fought, and you must keep fighting.”

“Father - “ she was finally able to say but the moment she did, he collapsed into dust. Brienne sank into the green darkness and grabbed at the papery dust, crying out. 

 _No, no, no_ , she beseeched any gods that were listening, _do not take him away again_.

But it seemed as if the gods were not listening to her dreams.

“Brienne,” the third vision called out from behind her and Brienne was afraid to turn to see who it was this time, but made herself, fighting her fear and exhaustion as if they were enemies that wished her dead.

And she was rewarded for it, because it was Jaime.

“Brienne,” he breathed. With every breath Jaime took, he glowed gold and silver, green and blue, and the light of the stars that were hidden in the sky sparked off his bare chest. Brienne didn’t move, more afraid of this image of the man than anything else she had seen. _He looked half a god._

Why couldn’t she wake?

“Brienne,” he said again, edging closer to her. Brienne backed away from him into the murky dark, leaving her father's ashes behind.

“Why haven’t you told me the truth?”

His query was just and that only hurt Brienne more, “I’m sorry,” she sobbed, crawling into herself.

“Save yourself, Brienne,” the vision of Jaime ordered as he kneeled beside her, handing her a sword. It glowed as brightly as Jaime and when she grasped it, it burned her hand and she screamed and screamed and _screamed_ until light burned her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter... was a challenge. It's been on the backburner for months and it was only when I decided to split it into two parts when it began to take some sort of form. So you'll be getting another Brienne chapter in a few chapters.  
> As for the dream, going to be honest, it came to me today and now it exists (like GRRM I tend to be more a gardener more than an architect). It works within my current plans though so I'm actually quite pleased with it.


	15. Gendry III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry discovers things about himself and others.

**_Gendry III_ **

* * *

 

The sunlight stung Gendry. The back of his neck and his ears were redder than the earth they tread on, according to Bronn for Gendry could not see his own neck, but still Gendry smiled, for he had more coin than he did a day earlier.

The tradesmen had offered Gendry and Bronn a surprising amount of coin for their help in taking their goods (silks, spices, and wine) into Casterly Rock before they would head down to Lannisport. Gendry didn’t particularly want to go to the castle, what was he to do with lords and ladies, kings and princes and princesses, but felt that he needed the coin. Bronn, however, considered this an opportunity, to persuade lords and ladies, kings and princes and princesses how much they needed their very own sellsword guard.

“These are troubling times, after all,” Bronn laughed, lugging a cask of wine behind him. Gendry laughed too - the sellsword had become an almost friend on the Goldroad, saving their lives at least twice from bandits. Thieves were more daring now than they had ever been before, the Braavosi had informed Gendry with a sour face one afternoon. According to him, Tywin Lannister was too preoccupied with his own worries to worry about his people and Jaime Lannister’s travels had only done minor damage to the growing threat of bandits. Tyrion Lannister’s recent taxes weren’t helping matters, the Dornishman had added, his voice higher as if he was distraught by the news, although why he’d be so upset was a matter of some puzzlement to Gendry. Shouldn’t the Dornish be rejoicing that their enemy and his people were in trouble? Gendry would, if he was Dornish.

Or so he thought, but the Dornishman looked so saddened that Gendry wasn’t completely sure.

The Braavosi scowled, “I feel bad for the peasants and those captive girls but not for the Lannister King. His sins are innumerable.”

“I don’t remember the war very well,” Gendry said, feeling almost guilty as he did. He had just been a small child when the war ended and an even smaller child when it began.

The Dornishman sighed and locked eyes with the Braavosi, “It was not a good war,” he said, after a moment, “It was a war where everyone lost, even Tywin Lannister.”

“And the innocent lost most of all,” the Braavosi spat.

Bronn laughed, although Gendry didn’t see what was funny, “And the sellswords gained.”

The Braavosi’s eyes darkened but the rest of his face lit up, “Ah, they did indeed. Even the merchants succeeded quite well. War can either ruin economies or drive them, is it not so?”

“You sound like you work for the Iron Bank,” the Dornishman quipped, as he attempted to lift a cask of wine. He was unable to - the Dornishman was too lithe and did not look as if he had been trained to do much labor at all. Gendry quickly went over to help, grabbing the bottom of the cask with difficulty. 

A steward, who had a pinched face and a pointed beard ran over to them, “No, what are you doing unloading here, you cannot do this without - “ he stopped when he looked at the Braavosi whose smile somehow became sharper than Bronn’s blades. 

“Littlefinger,” the Braavosi nodded, his accent disappearing. Or not disappearing exactly, Gendry realized, but becoming Dornish.

He would have questioned this if the Dornishman hadn’t let go of the cask they were both carrying at that precise moment. Gendry unsteadily tried to regain his balance and somehow managed to put the cask down on the dirt path with some effort. He glared at the Dornishman, who was too busy watching the interaction between the two men. Bronn was also watching, his hand on the grip of his sword.

Gendry suddenly felt as if he should be paying attention as well.

“I did not know that we were expecting a visit from _the_ Oberyn Martell,” the man called Littlefinger stiffly replied, his mouth changing into a dangerous smile.  Even Gendry had heard of Oberyn Martell. Astonished, he glanced at the man he had been traveling with who shrugged as if nothing mattered.

“I suspect a letter from my brother Doran will be arriving soon. We were unaware our journey would take us here until quite late and then we had to find time to stop and send a raven to let my brother know. Do accept these gifts on my brother Doran’s behalf, however. He would think it was unacceptable if I did not deliver such gifts when I am obviously a. . . surprise visitor.”

The bearded man watched Oberyn silently, his odd smile widening as the Prince spoke, “Ah yes, I expect gifts like these will be very much appreciated by King Tywin in this hour. However, you said we? Shall I take it that these are your servants?” He looked over each of them with calculated disdain. Gendry noticed how the man smirked when he looked at Bronn, how his eyes darted over the Dornishman and how he barely glanced at Gendry once he saw the clothes Gendry was wearing. 

_You don’t know what I’m capable of,_ Gendry wanted to cry out, thinking of the witch (or was she a god?), but brooded instead.

“Actually, both of the gentleman will have fulfilled their contracts to me as soon as the wine is unloaded, although perhaps the servants of Casterly Rock can help them with that.”

“Both?” Gendry and the bearded man said. The bearded man looked over at Gendry with a different gaze now, almost piercing his skull, although Gendry wasn’t sure what it meant. Or if it meant anything at all.

Prince Oberyn smiled, a smile as dangerous as the one Littlefinger wore, “Yes, the third is no man at all, it is my paramour, Ellaria Sand. Is she not beautiful even in a man’s garb?”

Gendry blinked at the Dornishman and suddenly the man became a woman in the very next instant. How could he not see it before, he wondered, noticing how fine her hands were, although marred by the same calluses that were on his own, did he just ignore it?

“A pleasure,” Ellaria Sand muttered, looking over Littlefinger as if he was a sore on her foot. Which was something she had plenty of, Gendry knew, as they had been walking and riding for weeks.

Prince Oberyn laughed and slapped the bearded noble on the back, “Now, will you accept these gifts of wine, silks, and spices?”

“We shall,” the man called Littlefinger said, “but I must warn you we have not made up a room for you at this moment, since we have been caught quite unawares by your arrival… something I’m sure you did not intend to happen at all.”

The prince laughed again, although it edged on something dark, “Oh, Littlefinger, it has been too long since we have last met. I suppose you still know where the best brothels are? For we’ll stay there instead of the castle… until our rooms are ready.”

Brothels? Gendry felt uneasy about that until he remembered he was not the Prince’s servant. He did not have to stay with them.

Bronn spoke next, “Aye, I wouldn’t mind taking a peek at some of your brothels.” 

Oberyn turned to him, “I should have paid you in whores instead of in gold, I suspect.”

“Gold buys whores,” Bronn said, “So I’d be fine with either payment.”

Littlefinger watched this exchange with unease, Gendry noticed, before placing another wretched smile on his face, “I do know the best whorehouses in Lannisport, as I run nearly all of them.”

“Somehow that does not surprise me,” the Dornishman- no, the paramour Ellaria said dryly.

Littlefinger did not seem to like that comment but still he smiled and gave them the address of his best brothel, four horses, and a free hour with his whores, “The boy should learn things about women,” he said when he looked at Gendry.

Gendry didn’t like that, especially when Bronn agreed with the stupid man. 

This was how they found themselves heading to a Lannisport whorehouse, Ellaria and Bronn laughing, Oberyn watching the two of them with a smile, and Gendry scowling the whole way down.

It was a long ride, almost a whole day’s ride, to get from the top of the rock, to the port city, and Gendry almost wished that Littlefinger (whose true name was Petyr Baelish, Prince Oberyn informed him with a wink, although Gendry didn’t know why the other man winked) had given them a place to sleep, even if it was in the hay.

The Prince and his paramour did not say anything about their plans other than their interest in sampling the whores. Bronn laughed mightily every moment they discussed it and Gendry noticed that the sellsword liked them better now that they showed their true selves. 

But still they left Bronn and Gendry with sweet smiles when they arrived at the whorehouse Lord Baelish had recommended them, along with a handful of gold for Bronn, even handing Gendry three pieces, “You were a good companion, boy, Gendry, I wish you long summers and short winters,” the Prince said, pressing the gold into Gendry’s palm. 

Gendry nodded, almost feeling shy in front of the man he spent weeks with, and Ellaria kissed his cheek, “I’m a bastard just as you are,” she told him with an almost motherly smile, “and see how high I have risen? Do not let yourself be fooled by this cruel world, _you are important_.”

He touched the spot where she kissed him and was sure he had a silly grin on his face as they left, feeling odd and proud. Bronn chuckled at him, “C’mon boy, let’s get a room and then you can figure out what you’re going to do around this shitty port while I fuck a whore.”

Casterly Rock loomed over the city and, although it was at least an afternoon’s ride away, everyone could feel the shadow of the princesses that were hidden inside the fortress. The people muttered and shared rumors but Gendry tried not to listen. He was too aghast at the riches the port brought in, the fish, the spices, the wine, the fruits… it was _beautiful_. 

Bronn didn’t want to linger though and grabbed Gendry by the scruff of his collar, almost choking him. Gendry glared when Bronn let go and the man laughed, slapping him on the back, “No worries, boy, just didn’t want you to get pickpocketed.”

Gendry looked back and noticed that there were suspicious people watching him, or rather, pretending that they weren’t watching him and Gendry felt stupid for not noticing beforehand.  But he could not linger on his thoughts when Bronn pushed him into an inn, “The best inn in Westeros,” he boomed, winking at the maid cleaning the tables. She looked to be about Bronn’s age but still she turned pink from Bronn’s wink. 

“Have you been here before?” Gendry asked, while Bronn ordered the innkeep to give them two rooms. 

Bronn scratched his head. “Once - a lifetime ago. When I served lords rather than whoever paid me. Although, they paid me too,” he grinned.

“Damn straight I paid you and we even went looking for whores together, I’m very upset you’re saying otherwise,” a new voice by the door said and Gendry almost fell over when he saw who it was.

It was the Imp. Dressed in fine clothes, finer than Gendry had even seen, was a dwarf, with a small body almost like a child and a large head. Gendry turned red and felt rude for staring so he bowed, hoping he was doing it right. 

The shock of the Imp Prince walking over to Gendry and Bronn should have been the most surprising thing that had happened to Gendry over the past weeks. But he remembered Ellaria's and Oberyn’s secret and the cloak hidden in his pack and just shook his head. His trip had already been full of shocks, so he supposed he could get over something as straightforward as a Prince knowing a sellsword.

Maybe.

“I knew you’d find me as soon as Littlefinger saw me. He didn’t recognize me at first, the twat,” Bronn said, shaking the Prince’s hand with a laugh.

“It was Varys who informed me actually, you know how Littlefinger and I aren’t always telling each other everything, you know how we like our games,” the Prince (what was his name, Gendry wondered for he could not remember) smiled.

“You can stop bowing now, Gendry,” Bronn laughed and Gendry bolted straight upward, feeling foolish. 

“I know,” he said.

The Prince watched him, “I’m sorry but you look the spitting image of…” he trailed off, looking as though he wanted to say something. Something important it seemed, for his brow furrowed as if he was in deep thought.

Bronn answered the Prince’s unspoken question, “The brat’s a bastard, Prince Tyrion. He’s Gendry Waters of King’s Landing.”

“Not Storm’s End?” Prince Tyrion asked, searching Gendry for something. Gendry felt almost as if he was in the forest with the witch again and didn’t like it.

“I’m not important,” he argued, then fell silent. Could the Prince cut out his tongue for speaking so impertinently? 

The Prince ignored him, “He just looks exactly like Robert and Renly, when they were young and not… dead.”

“Perhaps this boy’s the reason why your sister murdered King Robert,” Bronn responded, “Fuck if I know, I wasn’t there. I’d never seen a Baratheon.”

A Baratheon? Gendry rolled his eyes, he was no Prince or Lord or nothing. He was a bastard and that was fine. Not fine, but… 

He grabbed the bag that hid his cloak and wished for nothing.

The Prince smiled tightly, “True, and we should move on, come let’s go to your rooms, I’m sure the common room would love to keep gaping at our conversation. I'm sure Varys' little birds know everything now.”

Gendry noticed the looks the other patrons were giving them, even hearing hushed tones about Prince Tyrion, but tried to pay them little mind as they were led up the stairs by Tyrion and his guard. 

“You may stay outside,” Tyrion said to his men, smiling as he did so. Although, it seemed more an order than a suggestion.

When they were inside Bronn’s new home for the evening, Tyrion slumped into a chair, “I should have demanded wine before I came up here.” Then he turned towards Gendry, who fidgeted under the Imp’s mismatched eyes, “And I shouldn’t have questioned your birth in front of that lot. I apologize.”

“Uh,” Gendry didn’t know what to say, “It’s all right.”

Bronn laughed, “Not like it matters, he’s a bastard of King’s Landing, not of Storm’s End, so he can’t be one of Robert’s.”

“Robert had many lovers all over the Kingdoms, as you know,” Tyrion retorted, “and the boy looks just like him.”

“My name is Gendry,” he replied hotly, not liking how they spoke of him as though he were not there. 

Bronn chuckled while Prince Tyrion apologized, a wry smile on his face as he did so. Gendry didn’t like it.

“How do you know each other anyway?” Gendry demanded Bronn, not looking the Prince in his eyes.

Bronn sat on the edge of the bed and exchanged a look with the Prince. “I worked for him,” Bronn said vaguely.

Gendry wasn’t satisfied but realized he was lucky to learn that. The Prince feigned a cough, “Well, if you don’t mind, Gendry who is Not the Son of a King,” Gendry scowled at the Imp but Prince Tyrion paid him little mind, “Bronn and I have many things to talk discuss, so if you would not mind…”

The implication was clear. He was being told to leave and go to his own room. Gendry frowned but followed the command, not eager to have his head dismantled from his shoulders. Just because the Prince was little didn’t mean he didn’t have power, Gendry knew. 

He sat in his room, his very own room, and laid on the bed. It was softer than anything he had felt since he was a small boy, who cuddled next to his mother at night. He didn’t remember her well, other than her yellow hair, but still he felt like crying as he laid on the bed.

Gendry had made it to the city. He had met Princes and paramours, sellswords and snakes, a witch who may in fact be a god, yet all he wanted that moment was for someone to tell him he’d be all right. 

He vaguely thought on Ellaria’s words from earlier that day. Had it truly only been an hour or so ago? Perhaps all these meetings meant something more. Perhaps, despite his worst fears (and greatest hopes) he was important. 

He got up from his bed and reached into his pack, grasping the cloak the old woman gave him. It was soft on his hands and Gendry almost wanted to wrap it around him, to feel all of it, until he remembered that it would cause him to become invisible.  Or at least that was what the woman said. He frowned and wondered if the inn was nice enough to allow him a mirror. There was no such luck so instead Gendry wrapped the cloak around his legs and waited. For a moment, nothing happened, and Gendry felt stupid. Then the shadows around his legs grew darker and his own calves did not exist. 

He wanted to shout, the way the knights did as they killed their opponents, but instead only raised his fist in the air, fearful that Bronn and Prince Tyrion would find him with half his legs gone. The rest of the evening left Gendry with a smile as he tested the magical cloak on all of his limbs, eager to see if it worked on his whole body. 

It wasn’t until Bronn knocked on his door that he realized he had been testing the cloak out until nightfall. The candlelight was dim and the window was dark which caused an eyebrow raise from Bronn when he came in. 

“So,” he said, holding two tankards of something that smelled like the cheap ale Tobho Mott drank, “I thought you might use a drink.” 

Gendry, whose hand was still wrapped in the invisibility cloak, nodded, while pulling the cloak off his hand and onto his bed. Bronn didn’t pay it any mind, instead looking uncharacteristically serious.

“That rat bastard wants _me_ of all fucking people to test myself against whatever is causing the princesses to be so sick and causing those men to disappear. I told him to fuck off,” he laughed, although it sounded bitter. “He tried to convince me with more gold than was reasonable, and I told him to fuck off again, although I can’t lie… I was tempted.”

“Tempted enough to get him to tell me more. I love that bastard, no offense, but I am suspicious of anyone that desperate to give me money, especially when the rumor is that Casterly Rock is full of more shit than gold.”

Gendry sat silently, sipping his ale and grimacing as Bronn kept talking. The older man looked upset, “The rumors are partially true. Even Tyrion, with all of his rationality, suspects magic.”

Gendry surreptitiously looked towards his cloak and wondered.

“I told him there was no way I was doing it then. But… I offered to help him find out how the whole fucking mess happened. He’s going to give me land for it… and I asked if you could help me.”

Gendry stared but eventually found his voice, “Why?! What could I offer a Prince?”

Bronn laughed, “You’re a hard worker and stubborn. And good company. That’s all I need. Plus, you ears prick up anytime someone mentions the word magic and that's got to mean something.”

Gendry flushed and was ready with a retort but Bronn interrupted him before he could say anything, “Don’t be dumb, boy. You need this. Tyrion will set you up at the royal armory and you’ll be able to take over when the old man retires… which I hear is very soon. You’ll have your life set as long as you help me get this done.”

“But what if we fail?” Gendry demanded.

Bronn cracked a smile, “Then we run off to Essos and leave this shitty place forever.”

Gendry sighed and began to feel as if he had no choice in the matter. Perhaps, he was in the right place though. He thought of Maggy and even Ellaria. He thought of his dream and the girl with startling grey eyes. And then looked at Bronn with a hard glare.

"I'll do it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, expect the next chapter sometime between 1-3 weeks. Hope you enjoyed!


	16. Jaime II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime hopes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally planning a totally different POV but Jaime demanded to be heard so here you go! Here's Jaime being... Jaime.

**_Jaime II_ **

* * *

 

It hurt to see her like this. Doing nothing.  Sick and lying on her bed, her eyes drooping, and her mouth murmuring nonsensical words... Brienne almost broke Jaime’s heart. 

“How long has she been like this?” he asked Maester Pycelle who shrugged, even as the other princesses glared at the two of them. Jaime supposed that Maester Pycelle pretended not to notice how unwelcome they both were. Even Sansa Stark, who had always given Jaime a forced smile, seemed troubled. 

“The young princesses called for help early in the morning, I believe she’ll be all right though, Prince Jaime. You should not worry so much for her, she is strong.”

Jaime scowled at Maester Pycelle. _Strong?_ Perhaps Brienne was once strong, even stronger than him, but now she looked too pale, too ghostly and ghastly, and so did the others. None of them were strong now. Not even Jaime, who wanted to hold both of Brienne’s hands in both his real and golden hand, in order to reassure her of her fate. Or perhaps, he wanted to reassure himself - Jaime did not know. 

The sight of Brienne suffering would not have always pained him. It was only as they grew up that he became fascinated with the young princess, she held no silliness yet she dreamed a fanciful dream of becoming a maiden knight. She was harsh yet gentle, awkward yet graceful when wielding a sword and all of these contradictions had worn him down until Jaime finally admitted to himself that he liked the ugly wench. 

And, as he grew older and wiser still, he had started to prefer the blue-eyed wench’s company to his own sister’s, although that was much harder for him to admit. Even looking at her now and knowing what he knew about Cersei… it was still difficult to believe that his preference had changed. 

Although Brienne had not supplanted Cersei in all aspects, she had not ever shared his bed as his sister once did, although only a few knew of that secret.

But still, Brienne was special to Jaime, and he had shared with her his fears and she shared with him her dreams.  She was the only person that Jaime had told about Cersei, in a fit of panic one night years ago, when King Tywin was arranging a betrothal between Cersei and a rich lord from across the narrow sea. Brienne had stared at him with her blue eyes and he saw all of her emotions plainly, her horror and fear were the most evident, but still she sat with him and held his golden hand in the forgotten godswood as if she wasn’t frightened by his sins or his hand. 

In the end, King Tywin had not agreed to send Cersei to the lord across the sea, and his golden twin joined him in his bed again, even as Cersei shied away from his stump, where his swordhand had once been. 

It was his younger brother that had completely destroyed any illusion Jaime had left of Cersei, warning Jaime that Cersei had opened her legs to other men throughout their time together, including their own cousin Lancel. Heartbroken and angry, Jaime had revealed what he knew to his sister and then demanded leave from his father to chase bandits around the country. And then… once again, he confessed to Brienne.

He admitted all of his evils to the poor wench, including the ones that had started the Long War - the ones so horrendous that they led her and the others to be captives of his father. 

And yet as he held her so tightly she did nothing but hold him back and let him cry onto her shoulder. He was so afraid and wanted Brienne to know how awful he truly was before he left, in case he died. He did not want her to weep for him. He did not want her blue eyes to be full of tears for him, he did not deserve it.

Yet she looked as if she might weep for him there in the broken godswood as they held onto each other the way soldiers sometimes held one another when a friend died in battle. _Who died?_ Jaime had wondered, grasping her thick waist, half-wanting to kiss her then to see her reaction.

Looking at her lips now, he welcomed any sort of reaction from her other than her odd words. Maester Pycelle tutted, "You may leave, Prince Jaime, she does not realize you are here- "

“Jaime!” Brienne whispered, opening her eyes, and Jaime immediately sat beside her bed, ignoring the clucking of Pycelle and the giggles and gasps of the princesses behind him. He was sure they would gossip about this, what else did they have to do, stuck in a tower like this? But he did not care. Brienne's fever had broken.

“Brienne,” he said, placing his real hand on her cheek, “Are you all right? Do you know where you are?”

“I was asleep… I was dreaming,” she said, touching her throat. It was slick with sweat and Jaime wished he had a piece of cloth, to wipe her down, “You were there and you… you gave me a sword.”

“That sounds right,” he smiled, trying to make her do the same. But her eyes were still unfocused, she looked around as if she was expecting someone to pop out of the shadows.

“I have to save us,” she whispered, so quietly that Jaime could barely hear. Jaime’s smile deteriorated. 

_Finally something_ , he thought, before shooing Maester Pycelle away from Brienne. The maester looked as if he was going to leech her blood. “I can take care of her, check on the other princesses, make sure they will not catch what Brienne has,” Jaime ordered.

The maester frowned but obeyed, only muttering a little under his breath. Jaime smiled and looked back towards Brienne whose eyes were starting to look bluer and brighter.

“Save you from who, Brienne?” he asked, dropping his voice low.

She looked troubled. “I don’t know,” she confessed, looking around, and Jaime knew that it was the first time since he had been home that Brienne had not lied to him or avoided his question. He smiled at her, “Then save you from what?”

Brienne choked and he had to slap her on the back before her face turned as blue as her eyes. Could she not speak? He had wondered if that was the case, ever since he began questioning them. 

“I will figure this out,” he promised her, holding her hand with his own for a moment. Her palms were wet but he did not care. 

“How?” she asked, “I cannot and I’m in the middle.”

“Maybe that’s why,” he suggested.

Brienne looked seriously at him and Jaime was stunned by how _old_ she looked, how drawn her face was, and how ancient her eyes seemed. She had always been ugly, but she had also always been _young_ , “Then you will not be able to find out either for you are in the middle as much as the rest of us. We’re all cursed.”

“I thought you were too sensible for such things,” Jaime japed with a feigned laugh, but tightened his grip on her hand.

“I don’t know anything anymore,” she said, troubled,“Remember Renly? Still no one truly knows how he died, but perhaps it wasn’t too different than this.”

Jaime pulled Brienne closer, pretending as if the rest of the room did not exist. “You are not allowed to die,” he commanded in a whisper.

Brienne didn’t smile, instead her frown deepened, “Valar Morghulis.”

_All men must die._  


Jaime wished that his father had never let the princesses learn Valyrian. “Good thing you’re no man. And you’re much too stubborn to die anyhow,” Jaime japed, letting her hand go. He got up from her bed, feeling as though he would get nothing else out of her and knowing that he would only become upset if he listened to her further. He couldn’t fight against an enemy he didn’t know.

Especially one that wielded magic. He could not defeat magic with a sword.

“Jaime,” Brienne said, as he got up, blushing as she did so. He was glad to see the color in her cheeks, even though it was only for a moment. Perhaps she’d recover from whatever harmed her in her sleep, “Be careful.”

He winked at her, as if to let her know that nothing had changed between them in the time they had spent apart, “I always am, wench.”

Jaime left her smiling. Walking to his own rooms, buried within the rock, he wondered if there was hope somehow, in all of this. 

“Jaime,” a voice called out in front of him and he cursed the Gods, both the old and the new. It was Cersei, of course, looking lovelier than ever, wrapped in a dress full of Lannister red and gold, although perhaps the gold should have been traded for another color, as they were truly becoming poorer every day.

“Cersei,” he greeted, unsmiling. He did not have patience to smile at his sister who was as beautiful as Brienne was ugly. 

In fact, she truly did look more beautiful than ever before, her face, once rounded like a young girl's, was now sharper than Jaime’s sword, and her green eyes glittered, framed by her long golden lashes. If Jaime had not known the truth of Cersei, he would have been stirred by her figure then. And even knowing the truth, it was hard to look at her and not become bewitched.

“Are you all right?” she asked, placing her hand on his chest, “You look as if you’re in pain.”

He pushed her off, lightly, trying not show his arousal, “I’m fine.” 

Cersei smirked and he tried to go past her, but she stepped in front of him, blocking his path in the narrow hall, “I heard you have been visiting the princesses again… whatever for?”

Jaime clenched his jaw and wondered why he was surprised. Of course it was about the princesses. Of course it was about something that she could get, some knowledge she needed to have, some sort of power, it was never about Jaime. 

Why should it be when she still thought she could have him anytime she snapped her fingers?

“Father asked me to check in with them,” he responded, feigning a look of boredom. Jaime knew that Cersei would most likely see through it but did not care. His father had asked him to check in on the princesses every morning, but did not know who Jaime talked to about what. And his father also did not know about Brienne’s recent troubles although Jaime was sure Pycelle would tell King Tywin at any moment. Which was fine, Jaime assumed, she was not ill any longer, or at least not as ill as she once was, thankfully.

“Why don’t you visit me anymore?” Cersei demanded, her voice changing from warm honey to the bitter cold. Jaime almost laughed at her then - he knew her tactics much too well.

“I am busy. I am the heir if you had not noticed,” he lied, taking advantage of her enraged face by pushing past her, and down the hall. Cersei followed him, although her legs were not as long as his, so she was not able to match his pace.

“Jaime!” she hissed, “Do not make me chase you.”

“I’m not making you do anything, sweet sister. I could never do such a thing.”

He reached his doors, where his squire awaited him outside. Podrick was fidgeting when Jaime arrived and his fidgeting worsened when Cersei appeared behind Jaime. 

_Poor simple boy,_ Jaime thought, not for the first time, “What is it?” he asked, not caring if Cersei was there or not. 

“Tyrion told me to let you know that Oberyn Martell and his paramour are in Lannisport and are planning on staying here starting tomorrow evening,” Podrick said all in a rush, his eyes avoiding both Jaime’s and Cersei’s.

“Oberyn Martell?” Jaime asked as Cersei snarled the same words. He ignored her.

Podrick nodded, “Yes, Prince Jaime, Prince Oberyn has brought gifts of wine, spices, and other goods in order to - “

“In order to bribe Father into letting his stupid niece go,” Cersei interrupted, her voice rising higher.

Jaime shook his head and turned to her, “Wouldn’t you like that though? To be rid of the girls?”

Cersei’s face, beautifully angry and horrid all at once, became a flat expression, one of distaste, “Father won’t allow it.”

_That didn’t answer my question, sister._ Jaime held his tongue though, for one of the few times in his life, “Podrick, did Tyrion want to meet with me?”

“In the morrow, Prince Jaime, he’s… at the brothel currently,” Podrick said, his eyes flickering and Jaime realized that the boy was lying. Lying poorly, but still lying. He was almost impressed especially when Cersei bought it, laughing.

“Father will be so pleased to find Tyrion at another whorehouse.”

“He’s greeting the Prince and his paramour there,” Podrick lied again, looking at his shoes.

Jaime smiled, going along with the lie, “Of course he is, Oberyn is as notorious as Tyrion.”

Cersei did not like that, for whatever reason, complaining of the comparison and then relieving herself of their company as the talk had become dull and irritating. 

“But Jaime, do remember to pay me a visit later,” she said, kissing his cheek as a sister might. But Jaime suspected the visit she wanted was not in the same vein as her cheek kiss. It did not matter. He would never be going to her rooms again.

When she left, Podrick opened Jaime’s door for him, and then quickly filled Jaime in on the details. And Jaime liked none of it. 

“Do you think Oberyn Martell is here to make war? He has grudges from _two_ wars against my father,” Jaime thought out loud. 

Podrick kept silent and for that Jaime was grateful. He liked being able to speak his mind without judgement or comment. 

“What do we know about the sellswords?” Jaime asked.

Podrick answered, his voice quiet, “Tyrion is meeting with them now. He knows one of them.”

_What sellsword did Tyrion know?_ Jaime knew very little of Tyrion’s life during the Long War, the two brothers separated from each other due to the fighting and Jaime’s later captivity. Tyrion and he did not speak of either of their experiences, still hurting from the Long War and all it brought with it.

“I suppose Tyrion will tell us when he’s here,” Jaime replied reluctantly, “But what of Oberyn? Is Tyrion to speak with the Prince and his Paramour as well?”

Podrick nodded, “He wants to find out Oberyn’s plans and hopefully discourage the Prince from them.”

Jaime scoffed, “As if Oberyn Martell could be discouraged from anything.” Not even Tyrion could dissuade Oberyn from whatever his plans were, Jaime knew.

“There’s one more thing, Prince Jaime,” Podrick said, grabbing something out of his pocket. The boy looked nervous, “It’s a letter addressed to your Father, from King Brandon Stark of Winterfell.”

_Bran,_ Jaime mentally corrected. He closed his eyes and tried not to think of the moment he started a war. All for Cersei’s sake.

And in a twisted way, _his own._

Jaime opened his eyes. “Where did you get it from?” he asked. 

His squire swallowed, “I was fetching a raven for Lord Varys, he needed to send a letter, and I saw it come in. I grabbed it when I saw it said Winterfell, I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have.”

Jaime shushed him, “It’s fine, I’ll take it to my Father.”

_Just not now._

Podrick apologized again and Jaime smiled, “Go grab your supper and relax. I’ll take it to our King.”

Podrick bowed awkwardly, looking embarrassed and grateful to leave, and quickly left Jaime to his own thoughts.

Jaime debated opening it but realized it would be hard to explain to his father why he did so when it was addressed to the King. Jaime may have been the _mild favorite_ of his father, but that did not mean he could get away with reading letters meant for his father.

He placed it on his desk, thinking that he’d show it to Tyrion when he arrived and together they’d give it to Father. Tyrion had a better sense for politics than Jaime and would probably understand whatever meaning the King of Winterfell ( _just a little boy,_ a voice cried in his head, one that sounded uncomfortably like Catelyn Stark) intended for the King of Casterly Rock.

Or so Jaime hoped. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual the wait for the next chapter will be 1-3 weeks! Thank you guys for all the reviews and kudos and I hope you continue to enjoy the story!


	17. Arya II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya watches.

**_Arya II_ **

* * *

 There was a boy Arya had never seen outside her window and it bothered her.

It was almost annoying how everything seemed the same despite the fact Arya could not live out there with them anymore. Except this boy. He was the only difference Arya had seen in weeks.

She was sitting on Val’s bed, as the wildling princess was closest to the window with the best view of the outside world. Arya had crawled to it, unable to bear the pain on her feet any longer, and Val had pulled her up, laughing as she did so. 

Arya was glad Val had laughed. There had been no laughing since Brienne’s fever. Even after it broke, the rest of them were unable to laugh or smile. Everyone was too nervous that they were _next_. The dancing had caused it, they all knew, but still the next night they danced all the same, as if the shadow of Brienne's dreams wasn't on the large princess' face. And afterwards, everyone had been afraid to fall asleep, for the first time in ages. They usually enjoyed their precious sleep since they had so little of it. And even the bravest of them, Asha, Daenerys, Arianne, faltered and whispered their fears to the others.

But Arya hated thinking of that so instead she watched the boy. He had dark locks of hair and was quite handsome, she decided, almost unfairly she knew, as she could barely see his face from the window. He sat on a bench and looked to be waiting for someone. 

For who, Arya could only guess. 

She watched the boy some more and decided she hates the look of him. He looked stupid to her, just sitting patiently and waiting. She wouldn’t do that if she was outside. She would scream and jump and climb like her brother Bran once did, climb the Rock all the way to the top and be happy to be out and alive.

“Who’s the boy?” Val asked, peering out the window, “He looks like a soldier.”

Arya didn’t like the sound of that. “I don’t think so,” she argued, “He’s too young.”

“He doesn’t look too young to me. He looks as if he’s seen battles and women. You’re looking at a man,” Val informed Arya. 

Arya scowled which made Val laugh.

“Oh, look,” Val said, “He’s meeting with Lord Varys… and a very fat man. Have you seen him before?”

Arya had actually seen the large man before although she couldn’t remember where until Daenerys made her way over, her bed was next to Val’s, “He’s the man who brought me here,” she informed them with a frown.

“That’s Illyrio Mopatis? The infamous magister from Essos?” Val asked. How Val knew any of this, Arya wasn’t sure. The wildling princess was smart but still the idea she knew so much about southron life was strange to Arya, who grew up hearing tales of the wildlings. Val wasn’t like any wildling maiden tale Arya had ever heard of - she was no maiden at all in fact, which impressed all the older princesses, although it made Brienne and Sansa blush. Val was the oldest princess though, she had come to King Tywin as a girl of ten-and-three who had already had her first bleeding. Arya was jealous. Val got to experience that with her mother by her side…  or at least Arya assumed she did, Arya truly didn’t know much about Val at all.

Daenerys nodded in response to Val’s question, “He was one of my family’s men…of sorts. He’s…” she hesitated, “I’m not entirely sure how to describe him.”

“Fat,” Arya supplied, watching the three men talk. Val chuckled while Daenerys seemed to be holding in her laughter, even biting her lip to restrain herself. 

Arya wasn’t trying to be funny.

“That boy is handsome though,” Daenerys said after she recovered.

Val shook her head, her hair shining in the light streaming from the window, “He’s no boy, he’s a man.”

“Who’s that other man coming up to them?” Arya asked and the other two girls frowned. 

“That man is unfamiliar to me. Perhaps he’s the boy’s father?” Daenerys suggested. Arya thought that was stupid, the man didn’t look anything like the boy. He looked like a sellsword.

Arya had enough of guesses, “I’m opening the window.”

Daenerys grabbed her arm and Val grabbed the other one. “King Tywin will not be pleased,” Daenerys warned her.

Arya didn’t care and pulled away from both of them, “I don’t care! Death by beheading would be better than this slow death. I’m bored and I want to talk to someone I don’t see every day.”

So Arya pulled at the window and pulled and pulled until at last it opened.

And then, before Val or Daenerys or Tywin Lannister himself could stop her, she yelled, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

Lord Varys looked up first and even waved at Arya, a strange smile on his face, although Arya couldn’t tell if the man could hear her. The fat magister, Illyrio, looked up next and only scratched his beard and muttered something to the Master of Whisperers who giggled. Arya disliked and distrusted Lord Varys’ giggles - it always felt as if he was hiding something.

The men she didn’t know the names of looked last, and the older man laughed outright when he saw her while the younger one - who did look more like a boy than a man now that she could see his face - stared at her, looking almost stunned.

She knew the boy was stupid.

“Arya, stop it,” Sansa said from across the room. Apparently, Arya’s antics had drawn attention from the other princesses. Arya looked behind her and stuck out her tongue, unwilling to concede. 

Val laughed but tried to pull Arya away from the window anyways. “You’ll get us all killed,” she pointed out and Arya scowled, thinking of King Tywin.

“Fine,” she conceded, waving her hands at the men one more time before shutting the window. Everyone looked so relieved when she did so that Arya almost felt bad for doing such a thing but then remembered how freeing it was to wave at the men.

“Thank you,” Daenerys said, her eyes scanning Arya’s, “Never do that again.”

Arya hated Daenerys at that moment and wanted to open the window and climb down and shriek, although that window had no good stones to climb down on and so Arya would most likely slip and die if she did any of that. But still, she wanted to escape all of them. She wished to flee from this place. They weren’t her real family, except for Sansa, they had no business telling her what to do, even Sansa didn’t, _not really_. 

“Food!” a knight announced as he burst into the tower room, distracting Arya from her angry thoughts.

The evening guard was the same as always, some offshoot of the Lannister family that Arya didn’t care about although Sansa probably knew who he was and who his parents were - Sansa was good at that. 

“Thank you,” some of the princesses chimed politely, although they all looked too tired to care. The knight frowned as he allowed the servants to enter. Arya wondered if he ever smiled. The guards and knights only came by to bring food, one in the evening, one at noon, and one in the morrow - no man wanted to stand guard inside their tower room. Not since the dancing began.

Arya couldn’t blame them considering that every man that had kept watch in their room ended up being a dance partner by the next night.

She wasn’t entirely sure how that worked, still.

The guard helped Arya to her proper bed, carrying her over to it as none of the princesses were allowed to eat on the other princesses’ beds. This was supposedly to add some sense of order to the madness that was now their lives, but Arya didn’t care for order.

She just wanted freedom. 

A servant handed Arya a slice of roasted pig and a pair of lemon cakes. Sansa cooed at her dessert, delighted by it, and Arya smiled at her older sister. 

A goblet was handed to Arya also although it wasn’t full of water but with wine, “What is this?” she demanded the knight after she took a sip. She had wine on occasion but nothing this rich. She wasn’t sure if she liked it.

The knight looked uncomfortable and kept his voice low, “Dornish Red, courtesy of Oberyn Martell.”

Princess Arianne’s ears perked up, “Is my uncle here? May I see him?”

“I do not know either of those answers, Princess,” he hedged, his frown deepening, “I shall let you know when I do.” Arya could tell he was lying. He wasn’t very good at it.

Arianne did not look satisfied with this, “The Prince visited Brienne when she was ill, perhaps he should allow my uncle the same privilege.”

Arya watched Brienne who looked unhappy at being brought into the argument. The blonde woman said nothing though.

Arya would have said something.

“I will… let the Prince know your concerns,” the knight said. He forced a smile but it was pained and miserable. So much so that Arya almost felt sorry for him. Until she glanced at his shiny, blonde hair.

_Lannisters._

“Do so,” Arianne commanded, her voice made up of steel. She may not have wielded a sword, but Arianne could fight with the best of them, Arya knew.

It reminded Arya of something Brienne had said, long ago, about Arya’s mother, _“She had a woman’s sort of courage when I met her, long ago during the war… your sister has it too.”_

Arya wondered what sort of courage she had.

The guard left quickly after Arianne’s command, bringing the servants with him.

“You shouldn’t be so harsh on Ser Lancel,” Sansa admonished as soon as the door was closed, “He’s been kind to us.”

Arya knew her sister would have known his name.

Arianne was quick to retort. “Only to report on us to the Princess Cersei, do not be naive, Sansa.”

Sansa looked angry, which was a rare expression… now, anyways. Months ago, Sansa used to look as angry as the rest, and the target of her irritation was usually at Arya. But the dancing had taken a lot out of Arya’s sister. Sansa had at first been dreamier than ever, but Brienne’s ill health and the revelation of Littlefinger’s deception had taken its toll, as did the lack of sleep. “Do not think I’m a fool. I know what Ser Lancel does, but being obvious helps us not at all,” Sansa said.

Arianne observed Sansa for a moment, chewing on a piece of her meat quietly. “You would get along with my father, I think. He likes slow moves too.”

Sansa flushed and looked down and Arya suspected she missed something very important. “What are you saying?” Arya asked Sansa, “I thought you trusted all of them.”

“Why would I do that?” Sansa asked, looking back up at Arya, genuinely confused, “I just hope that they are trustworthy and treat them all with kindness.”

“But why?”

Sansa looked sad then, and lowered her voice so only Arya could hear. “Because sometimes kindness is the only weapon you have. I’m not like you or Brienne or Asha, Arya, I cannot wield a sword. I can’t wield words either, not like Daenerys or Margaery. I can only be kind. I can only hope for love.”

“That’s stupid.”

Sansa laughed although it wasn’t a genuine one and had a sip of her wine, wincing as she did so. “Probably, but what else can I do? I can’t walk or run or fight or flirt or lie. Lord Baelish told me I was the worst liar he had ever met, once long ago..." Arya grimaced but Sansa didn't see it, or pretended not to, "I can only dance and that can only happen underneath the dark skies below us. And that’s the only time I’m happy now. Even I am worn from this as much as I pretend otherwise, I lie to myself to keep it going but I can’t do it any longer. As much as I enjoy the dancing, I miss being able to leave the tower.”

Arya bit into one of her lemoncakes and sighed, “I can always teach you to fight.” Not that fighting would solve the issue of dancing, Arya knew, but perhaps knowing how to fight would help Sansa in other ways.

Sansa smiled, although it seemed as icy as their home in the North, “Can you imagine me in the yard practicing with a sword?” 

“No,” Arya confessed, not feeling up to the lie, “But that shouldn't matter.”

“But it does matter.”

“Well it shouldn’t,” Arya said stubbornly, “if you want to fight, I can teach you, even now.”

Sansa did laugh then. Arya would have been angry if she wasn't so glad to hear the sound, “Arya, we can’t even stand.”

“So what,” Arya demanded, disgruntled, “You can lift your arms can’t you?”

Sansa tested this out, stretching her arms and reaching towards the top of the tower, “Yes?”

“Then we’ll be fine,” Arya said, not really knowing if it was true. But perhaps just pretending to teach Sansa how to fight, the way she was taught by the Braavosi water dancer who visited years ago, would alleviate boredom if nothing else.

Sansa shook her head and lowered her arms, “I feel foolish.”

“Do it again,” Arya ordered, “after you finish eating. And then again and again. Our legs and feet may be unable to work but we can still work our arms. We shan’t be crippled by this stupidity.”

“That’s not a terrible plan,” Brienne called out. She had evidently been paying attention to their discussion. Arya flushed while Brienne continued, “I think we should all do what you suggest. It couldn’t hurt.”

Several other princesses seemed interested in their conversation and asked what they should do, if they should stretch their arms as well. Even Alla Tyrell, one of the silliest Tyrells in Arya's opinion and they were all quite absurd, flirting and giggling and playing kissing games all the time, asked Arya how to stretch properly. She was eager to do something other than sit and giggle, Arya supposed.

So before the sun fell and darkness rose, before they were forced to dance and dance and dance in the forest below their feet, the servants who were to fetch the dinner plates and goblets were greeted by the strange sight of twelve princesses reaching for the ceiling and pretending to touch the sky. 

Some of the other girls dropped their arms as soon as the servants entered, looking embarrassed at being caught but Arya was pleased to see Sansa continue to switch from arm to arm, reaching and longing for the sky outside, unbothered by the intrusion. Shireen had continued as well, her mottled face beaming. 

_ Why didn't I think of this sooner, _ Arya wondered, feeling stupid as she watched. It seemed to bring everyone's spirits up and it startled the servants which made Arya laugh.   


And the Gods, both the old and the new, knew how much she needed to laugh.

It was a nice change from dancing in any case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual it may be anywhere from 1-3 weeks until the next chapter! Thank you for reading! :)


	18. Jon II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon meets and conspires.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe this is the longest chapter I've written for this story, I think it clocked somewhere over 5000 words so I hope you enjoy it!

 

**_Jon II_ **

* * *

 The inn chimed with laughter and Jon misliked it. It didn’t seem right to sit in a dingy Lannisport inn, only a short few hours ride from his sisters who languished in a tall tower, and _laugh._

"Cheer up, boy,” Mance Rayder had told him earlier in the day, handing him a flagon of ale, “soon we shall see what those Lannisters are up to.”

Jon suspected that the wildling king knew more than he said. Mance had pretended to be a singer when they arrived at the inn and the man specifically picked this inn as he, somehow, knew that the Imp prince apparently visited here on occasion. Jon wasn’t entirely sure how the wildling found out so much information so quickly upon their arrival, but then remembered the spearwives the man brought with him. 

The men in Mance’s ragtag team (as well as Jon’s own men, save Pyp and Grenn, who stood by him drinking ale) stayed behind in the woods beyond the Gold Road. One of the men was a warg and could see into the rats and birds of Lannisport, and would know if something went wrong. Jon didn’t believe this when he had first heard. Could such things exist, Jon had asked when he had first heard from the wildling Ygritte, who laughed at him, scornfully as if he asked something stupid.

She wasn’t laughing now although she was one of the only people in the inn that wasn’t. 

“He should be back soon,” Jon reassured her and she shook her red hair in disagreement.

“You know nothing,” Ygritte said, glancing away from them and staring into the fire.

Jon bit the inside of his mouth to keep from retorting and instead placed his hand on her shoulder. Ygritte didn’t shrug it off, which surprised him, but, instead, she leaned into it. Ygritte was not beautiful, but there was something entrancing about her all the same, Jon believed. 

The door to the inn was flung open before Jon could think more on Ygritte. Startled, he gripped her shoulder tighter and she looked at him with a puzzled expression. “Are you frightened by a few noises, Jon Snow?” she demanded.

He didn’t answer her, instead sweeping his gaze at the entrance of the inn. It was good to know who was entering and who was leaving a building - or at least that was what he had been taught. 

Pyp and Grenn had left his side and were now by the entrance flirting with some girls, but all of them had already been inside the inn. But the two dark-haired people, one a man, and one a woman, they looked unfamiliar to Jon. They were new. 

_And dangerous._ Every movement of theirs reminded Jon of a curved dagger, graceful and sharp. Jon misliked it.

As did Ygritte. “They’re trouble,” she proclaimed to Jon, her hand reaching for her own dagger.

He stopped her, “We know nothing of them yet, they may be trouble but they may not be our trouble.”

Ygritte nodded but Jon knew she still had a hold on her dagger. He smiled at that. 

Jon liked the wildling girl, more than he ought… he realized that on the road to Lannisport. Despite her having a knife at his throat from almost the moment they met, he had a respect for her.

More than respect, truly, as she stated the hard truths that he didn’t like hearing. 

She did so now, “They look noble. Even more southron than these lot. They’re here for the same reasons we are.”

“What makes you think that?” Jon asked, looking the pair over carefully. They were of a darker skin than anyone else, making Jon believe that they were Dornish, but the idea of them being noble didn’t strike right in his heart.

Ygritte snorted, “Look at how he holds himself. He holds his head higher than you do, Lord Snow.”

A wave of irritation spread across Jon’s chest but he pushed it down, watching, seeing what Ygritte saw. 

The man did hold his head high, although it didn’t seem as if he looked down upon anyone that spoke to him. In fact, the man’s eyes seemed to assess every person who came near him with a careful calculation. Jon was grateful that they were too far away and partially hidden behind the banister that held up the second floor of the inn. It would not due to receive such a treatment from that man. 

“Do you see now, Jon Snow?” Ygritte demanded, pressing herself into Jon. He could feel her breasts against his arms and wished that he could hold them, _kiss them_ , but he dedicated himself to ignoring her near presence. 

Ygritte laughed and he wished he could kiss her mouth to stop her from laughing at him, “You need to hold a woman, Jon Snow. Before it’s too late.”

“Too late?” Before he could stop himself, Jon turned to her. Her eyes were softer than he could ever imagine them being, Ygritte always seemed so hard, like a rock or the Wall itself, but now her eyes and even her smile, were soft.

“You won’t find a woman like me in your castles south of the wall, I can promise you that, Jon Snow. You should steal me while you have the chance.”

His hand reached out and touched her cheek and for a moment it seemed as if Ygritte was going to kiss him. And he welcomed it. 

But then words from another, someone much more masculine than Ygritte’s, came rushing out from behind him, “You’re a northerner, are you not?”

Jon swallowed and suddenly Ygritte was not smiling anymore. She looked as hard as she ever did and so Jon turned around to face their new enemy.

Or, perhaps, their new ally. 

“Yes,” Jon said. He felt there was no point in denying it to the dark man and his companion, who was draped over the man almost as she was his armor.

Perhaps she was, Jon thought, looking over at Ygritte who stood beside him now, glaring at the two strangers.

“And you are?” Jon finally asked, surveying them both carefully. Pyp and Grenn, for once, seemed to notice that something was the matter and so came over as well, standing next to Ygritte. 

The six of them stood in a dark corner where very little people were paying attention. The inn was still full of ale, whispers, and laughter so much so that they would not notice whatever sort of nonsense this was. 

The man’s smile looked to be as lethal as the sword at his side, “I am Prince Oberyn of House Martell. And this,” he said, gesturing to the woman beside him, whose smile looked even more dangerous, “is my paramour, Ellaria Sand.”

_It seemed Ygritte was right - he was a noble._ “Very nice to meet you all,” his paramour, Ellaria, said, sounding more like a snake than a woman.

“Now what are a group of Northerners doing in Lannisport?” the Prince asked with another sly smile. He sipped his wine with a pleasing look on his face, one that wanted more information than Jon wanted to tell.

“Hear there’s some gold to be made, saving those Princesses” Jon lied, trying to sound gruff and mercenary, “Although I mislike this whole business. Cursed, I hear? Not sure if we’ll get involved after all.”

Prince Oberyn nodded, looking thoughtful, “I suspect it must be a sort of poison hurting the Princesses. I do not trust the Lannister’s maester.”

“Poison,” Ygritte scoffed, speaking for the first time, “a coward’s weapon.”

“A woman’s weapon,” Grenn spat, causing both Ellaria and Ygritte to shoot him sharp glares. Jon wished that Grenn had thought upon who he had been fighting with the past several weeks before he spoke.

This remark amused the Prince of Dorne. “A weapon is a weapon, I could kill you with a dash of Widow’s Blood or a stab in the belly - both would be painful and both would kill you,” the Prince said lazily. Or at least an attempt to appear lazy. Prince Oberyn's eyes were too alert for Jon to consider the Prince to be truly at ease. 

His paramour agreed, “You may not understand this, boy,” she said, directing her comment at Grenn, “but death is death. Its maker doesn’t matter.”

“Winter is coming,” Jon said reflexively, which caught the attention of the prince.

“This truly does confirm my suspicions,” Prince Oberyn said, “you are the bastard Stark, Jon Snow.”

Jon wasn’t sure what to say, _was there a point to denying it any longer,_ so instead he nodded. 

“Do not worry, your brother,” _Robb_ , Jon thought for a wild, desperate moment, before remembering Bran, his King, his little brother, “wrote to us and gave us a rough description of your looks.”

“Why would he do that?” Jon asked. _Why would Bran write to Dorne?_

“We have been allies for quite some time now, it is a secret alliance which is why your brother was probably reluctant to share this information with you - “

Jon disagreed, “But I’m his brother. I would only do what was right for him. I follow him. I’d protect him.” 

Oberyn’s eyes flashed, “As would I for my brother Doran. But sometimes they must hide their truths from us, to protect the rest.”

“We should not speak of this here, my love,” Ellaria stated, frowning at the Prince. 

He sighed, then smiled charmingly again, “You are right, my love, we should all go to a brothel… or perhaps, Jon, would you like to be shared with me and my lover?”

If Jon had been drinking he knew he would have choked. But he kept a straight face while Pyp and Grenn guffawed,and Ygritte shook, although in amusement or anger he wouldn’t have been able to say. “I am flattered, but I will have to decline.”

Ellaria laughed while Prince Oberyn’s smile grew wider, “That is a disappointment, but perhaps your fiery friend would agree to our proposal.”

Ygritte looked at Jon with confusion and then faced them again, “No,” she hedged, sounding more unsure of herself than Jon had ever heard her sound before. 

He could feel her reaching for the sleeves of his shirt and he let Ygritte touch it, “You see,” Ygritte continued, “I am Jon Snow’s and he is mine.”

And then she grabbed his hand, pulled him aside and kissed him. And for a moment, all Jon knew was Ygritte. Her smell, the tongue pressing against his lips until he opened his mouth to allow her entrance, the feel of her chest against his - all of it was her and all of it was wonderful. 

Jon couldn’t stop smiling when she finally let go, although he knew he shouldn’t have been showing that much emotion in front of a possible enemy, no matter what Bran’s plans were. 

Ygritte’s smile was more smug, but it was still there, pressing against her cheeks as if it was looking to escape.

Pyp was the first one to speak, “You owe me five dragons, Grenn.”

“I don’t even have five dragons,” Grenn complained.

Ellaria and Oberyn’s smiles were almost parental, which disturbed Jon when thinking about how they invited him and Ygritte to their bed, “I see you have found your own paramour, Jon Snow,” Ellaria observed, “Treat her well and do not forget, you are always welcome in our bed.”

With those words Jon thought for a moment that the Dornish couple would make their retreat, but instead they lingered, ordering drinks for all of them.

Jon didn’t touch his until Mance came back from his journey, scouting the Lannisport area. The older man looked like a true citizen of the city rather than a wildling King, it was impressive. 

“Who are your friends?” he barked at Jon, baring his teeth at the Prince and his lover.

“Who are you?” Prince Oberyn demanded in return before Jon could answer.

Jon sighed. He was weary of intrigues and he wanted to drink, “Prince Oberyn Martell… meet the King beyond the Wall.”

Prince Oberyn raised an eyebrow. Jon thought he actually looked impressed by the other man, “I would not have guessed that you were even Northern by the look of you. Well done.”

Mance didn’t preen at the praise the way most men would have, “I do what I must for my own.”

“I almost forgot you had your own princess,” the Prince confessed, handing Mance his own drink.

Mance ignored it, “I almost forgot you had yours.”

Prince Oberyn didn’t mind this, it seemed, smiling cheerfully, “Well, I suppose we all have our girls to protect. I hear Stannis has even sent his onion knight to save his girl, although I’m sure he’s been waylaid by the Ironborn.”

“But don’t they have a princess as well?”

“They do, but once the Ironborn lose a child, they have a hard time believing they can gain them back. Do you not remember Theon Greyjoy?”

Jon’s jaw clenched and he turned away from them all.

He still wasn’t sure whether to pity Theon or whether to hate him.

“It’s done, Jon Snow,” Ygritte whispered, her breath tickling his neck. 

He almost wanted to kiss her again but felt as if Mance would disapprove.

Or perhaps he wouldn’t care - were they not the freefolk?

Before Jon could dwell on such thoughts, Mance interrupted them. “You boys,” Mance ordered, looking hard at Pyp and Grenn, “I want you to go up to the road that leads to the castle and tell us of every caravan, carriage, and all the other sorts of rich lords that go to the castle.”

“For how long?” Pyp asked.

“Until morning.”

Grenn looked as if he wanted to groan but Pyp looked to Jon, “Go,” Jon ordered, “I feel as if it would be good if we knew who was going to Casterly Rock. And who was leaving.”

Grenn nodded once Jon said his piece, but glared at Mance, “All right, Snow, we’ll do as _you_ command.”

Mance didn’t miss that although he seemed more amused than irritated. Prince Oberyn looked thoughtful and Ellaria smiled, which made her whole face glow. It was easy to see how a trueborn Prince could fall in love with her when she smiled like that, Jon thought.

Jon didn’t care about their reactions as much as he ought, for he thought Mance’s idea was a good plan. Perhaps the comings and goings of the people in Casterly Rock would give them a better idea of what was plaguing the daughters, sisters, nieces, goodsisters - that they all loved enough to defy the King of the Westerlands.

Although not soon after Pyp and Grenn left, Jon’s group discovered some of the souls that did leave the Rock, all without leaving their seats at the inn.

The Imp, Tyrion Lannister, looked just as shocked as Jon felt, upon discovering Oberyn and Jon together when he walked in on their party. Jon wished he looked less like his father at times, it made things like spying fairly difficult. Or perhaps Tyrion remembered Jon from a time before the Long War, before Bran had been pushed out a window by the Imp’s brother, just as Jon remembered Tyrion.

“Lannister,” Jon growled, although he did not mean to.

“We need to have a private room,” the Imp said without preamble, glancing back and forth from Oberyn to Jon with narrowed eyes, ignoring Mance, Ellaria, and Ygritte, “Now.”

His companions, a large man who looked to be a sellsword and a boy not much older than Sansa, nodded in sync with each other, and the man said, “My rooms are this way.”

“Why should we go with -” Jon started to say but was interrupted by Mance’s gruff acceptance of the invitation.

Prince Tyrion’s eyes did sway to Mance then and he seemed more confused than relieved that someone was agreeing. “Who am I speaking to?” the Imp asked cautiously, “Another princeling?” 

“Just a singer,” Mance replied, bringing out his lute and strumming it. Prince Oberyn laughed.

“Fine,” Jon said, before Tyrion could think more on Mance, “Let us go and speak.”

It took them little time to reach the room, which was tiny and cramped especially since there were eight souls within their group, although Tyrion did not look pleased that the women followed them in. Jon supposed he wanted a council of men that he already knew, as the Imp also looked askance at Mance.

But the Imp turned away from the wildling king and focused his attentions on the Prince of Dorne, “Why did you leave that letter for my father?”

Oberyn picked at his teeth while Ellaria laid her head on his shoulder, “I was told to give the King a message.”

The Imp frowned and replied, irritably, “Well, Jaime and I made sure he did not get it.”

“Then he’ll get the boy king’s letter,” Oberyn said, before nodding at Jon. 

Jon thought on Bran. What had his little brother wrought? 

Tyrion followed Oberyn’s glance and frowned, “We already have received King Brandon Stark's letter, although Jaime and I hid that letter from Father as well... for now. But do you even know of what we speak, Jon Snow?”

“No,” Jon said honestly, wishing Ygritte was standing next to him instead of across the room sitting next to Mance. Her hair looked beautiful in the candlelight, which the nameless boy had lit upon their entrance. 

The boy looked too young to be involved in games such as these yet so was Bran. And so was Jon himself.

_And so was Robb… long ago._

“Well then, let me educate you,” the Imp remarked flippantly, turning his frown into a forced smile, “the Dornish... and your dear brother have left my father a letter reminding him of the terms at the end of the war. Terms that established that your sisters and daughters and nieces and the like would be ours. To care for, to feed, to clothe, to marry off. And this would end the war.”

“But we only agreed to those terms if you protected them from harm as if they were yours,” Oberyn argued, although his smile glinted, “and the letter was reminding the King of those terms as well.”

The sellsword guffawed. “He’s got you there, dwarf,” he said, winking at Prince Tyrion.

The Imp’s eye twitched in response but he still smiled, although it seemed drier than it had been before, “Trust me, Prince Oberyn, we know of the terms as well as you do. We do not want another Long War.”

“Neither do we.” Oberyn claimed, although Jon wasn’t sure if that was true, not with how tight Oberyn gripped his the handle of his sword, “We only want our princesses back.”

The dwarf looked astonished, “Back? You can’t have them back. Not from my father in any case. The hostages are needed.”

Oberyn didn’t look happy with that, “You are harming our girls and that is not allowed. Not by your terms nor ours. We want no war. We only want the princesses restored to their homes.”

“That will cause a war!” Tyrion exclaimed, before Mance coughed lightly.

“Perhaps, we should focus on the real issue. Magic.” the wildling king said. Jon felt as if Mance was looking more towards himself than the others, and almost wanted to shy away from the conversation, feeling more like a boy than a man.

Ellaria scoffed, “Magic? This is a poison not magic.”

“We’ve had maesters from all over look them over now, as I do not trust our own Grandmaester,” Tyrion said, looking frustrated, “there’s no poison.”

“Some poisons cannot be found within the body until death,” Oberyn declared although Jon felt as it that was a lie. He would not say such a thing about the Dornish prince out loud though, not when he could possibly be the way to get Sansa and Arya home to Winterfell.

Thinking of his sisters gave him courage to speak. “That’s enough,” Jon said, placing his hands on the wooden table and looking towards them all. 

He almost felt like a King. _Did Robb feel like this? Does Bran feel like this?_

“Tell us everything. What has befallen the girls? I want every detail. If it is poison, Prince Oberyn will know of it, if it is not then we must determine another way to save them. And,” he said with a warning look at Prince Tyrion who had opened his mouth to interrupt, “that may even include King Tywin giving the hostages back to us.”

That was what Jon hoped for and he knew that the Imp could see this in his eyes.

But Prince Tyrion sighed and answered their queries, neglecting nothing, and telling all. The boy in the back shifted sometimes, looking alarmed at the truth of the matters, that the girls were not sleeping well and when they did sleep it was very little, that knights and sellswords were disappearing, that the girls could barely move due to pain in their feet, that money was disappearing for reasons unknown.

And that no one knew why this was happening.

Jon swallowed his worries and looked towards Ygritte, who frowned at him. Jon did not know why he wished for a reassuring smile, Ygritte would only tell him the truth. And a frown fit the situation better than a smile.

“It is no poison,” Oberyn admitted at the end of Tyrion’s speech, “Not any I have heard of and I know them all.”

“But magic?” Ellaria scoffed.

“You know nothing,” Ygritte swiftly replied, glaring at the other woman with daggers in her eyes. Jon hid his smile underneath his hand while Ygritte continued, “You southron know nothing of our magic and our lives but there is magic even here in this southern city with your painted lights and castles.”

The Imp stared at her. “You’re a wildling?” he asked with some confusion.

Ygritte held her head high, and Jon’s heart soared, “That I am.”

“You brought a wildling with you?” Tyrion asked Jon, “Why?”

“You have their girl just as you have my sisters. Why wouldn’t they be here?” Jon questioned.

“Ah, yes, your sisters,” Tyrion’s gaze disturbed Jon. He felt as if the dwarf’s gaze could penetrate his armor and skin and bones. “Sansa is one of the sicker ones although she’s held her head up high, Arya, however, well you can ask _them_ about Arya,” Tryion gestured to the sellsword next to him and the boy hidden behind him.

The boy in the back knocked into the wooden chair behind him, dragging all of their attention his way. He looked sheepish and so young.

But also sort of familiar. The more Jon looked at him, the more familiar the boy seemed.

_ Who was this boy Tyrion Lannister brought in with them? _

The sellsword laughed again, “Aye, she nearly fell out the window waving hello to me and Gendry here the other day, as well as that Magister Illyrio and your Lord Varys.”

The spider, Jon remembered vaguely, although the name Magister Illyrio escaped him. 

The boy named Gendry spoke to Jon, looking a little wary as he did so, “She looked happy, your Grace.”

“I’m not a King or a Lord or a Prince, boy,” Jon reprimanded although he made sure that his voice was gentle. _Arya was happy?_

Gendry flushed, “Well, ser, she looked happy to see people. I think I'd be bored out of my mind, confined to that tower.”

“You confined them? Have you not thought about moving them?” Jon demanded the Imp, who looked as if he was hiding some sort of jape under his tongue.

But he spoke no jape, “Of course we have! We have moved them a few times but nothing changes, so we placed them back in their tower room, as it's the only that can fit them all. If it is magic then it’s powerful magic.”

“What is our plan then?” Mance asked, “Are we to sacrifice one of ourselves to the curse?”

“I will do it, I will defy it,” Oberyn swore, standing up suddenly. 

Ellaria followed right after and nodded, “He can do it. I do not doubt him and neither should you.”

“I don't know if any more heroics are needed but I thank you for the thought, Prince Oberyn,” Prince Tyrion said, almost sneering. 

“Then what are we all doing here?” Jon demanded, his voice thick with anger, “Do you have an idea or don't you?”

There was sudden silence for a moment. And for that moment, Jon felt as if all the hopes and dreams of the girls stuck in that tower were on top of him, crushing him under the weight. _Arya... Sansa..._ he wondered, _what are your dreams?_

“I don’t have a clue anymore,” the Imp finally admitted, “but the boy does. According to some anyways, although I haven't the faintest idea.”

Gendry looked redder than when he had knocked into the table - he even looked redder than Ygritte’s hair. “It’s not much of an idea really. I would just go and spy instead. Since we don't understand the curse at all it seems like the best idea is to watch and try to understand it. There would be no feast, no welcoming, the girls wouldn’t realize I was in their room. It'd be the best way to find out what is happening at night.”

“Why you?” Jon asked, suddenly realizing the boy was almost a man and did not like the thought of this almost man in a room with his sleeping sisters.

The boy blushed again, avoided Jon’s gaze, and shifted his feet, “I don’t know why me.” 

“I’ll do it,” Prince Oberyn announced, again, but Prince Tyrion shook his head, “You are too noticeable.”

“I hid among this boy and your former hired sellsword for several weeks without arousing their suspicions.”

“That is true,” the sellsword vouched, “I didn’t realize who he was until that scum Littlefinger came crawling around.”

“No,” Gendry spoke, his voice hard with conviction, even as his face bespoke worries, “It has to be me.”

Mance looked at the boy carefully, and Jon wondered what the wildling saw in Gendry as Mance got up from his wooden seat and nodded. “It has to be him.” Ygritte stood with her King, but said nothing against or for him, and looked away from Jon’s gaze.

“Why does it have to be you?” Jon demanded again, not satisfied with Mance's agreement, “Why could it not be me, or Oberyn, or even Ellaria or Ygritte?”

“Magister Illyrio said it did,” Gendry stated, looking towards the Imp.

Prince Tryion sighed, “That pompous ass did say that. Something about prophecies and red priests or old gods or somesuch nonsense as that. Didn’t figure that the man was religious but you never know with old, fat goats.”

Oberyn looked unconvinced, “Magister Illyrio said this? I will speak with him.”

Prince Tyrion muttered something which sounded suspiciously like “ _Of course you know him,”_ but the Dornish prince ignored the Imp.

“There is more to the plan than this though, I hope?” Jon asked, thinking over it, “We cannot expect one boy to save twelve girls from a curse in a night.”

“Three nights,” the Imp corrected, “Gendry has three nights.”

Jon could taste blood in his mouth from biting on the inside of his cheek, “Why three nights then?”

Mance answered, “Power in threes.”

The Imp’s mouth twitched, “Well that and it was already established by my Father and I that anyone wishing to try and save the girls would have three nights in which to do so. And Father most know of this... although most of the men only had one night with the princesses before they disappeared.”

“I won’t disappear,” Gendry promised.

Jon shook his head, “That is what you say, but how can I trust a word of this boy. I know nothing of him.”

Prince Oberyn spoke, “He rode with us, I vouch for his character.”

“He is a good boy. A bastard like us, Snow,” Ellaria said, walking across the room to lay a protective hand on Gendry’s shoulder.

“And the son of Robert Baratheon,” Prince Tryion announced. This caused Gendry to growl, sounding more like a hunted animal than a grown boy. But the rest of them, the ones who knew Robert, looked over at the boy carefully, even the Dornish studied Gendry’s features, looking for the long dead King Robert in them.

And Jon found Robert Baratheon there, in Gendry's eyes, in his jaw, even in the way the boy held himself reminded Jon of his father's friend.

Jon could barely remember Robert Baratheon, Ned Stark's oldest friend, whose suspicious death was one of the many causes of the Long War. The death was caused by the probable hands of Cersei Lannister, who never admitted her guilt although all the people in the kingdoms knew of its truth, yet looking at Gendry it was as if Robert was still alive.

“I am no son of some stupid Prince or King,” Gendry retorted angrily, almost snarling.

Prince Tryion shrugged, and Jon knew that Prince Tyrion did not care for the boy's protests. “That may not be up to you, the rest of us can see the truth on your face.”

Jon walked over to Gendry, suddenly feeling sorry for the bastard boy, and reached out to grab the boy’s hand. “Our fathers were best friends, perhaps this is a sign.”

Gendry shook it but quickly let go, as if he couldn’t bear to associate himself with Jon. “I don’t know who my father is and I’m tired of signs. I don’t want to be the hero, but I have to be. And I don’t know why,” he snapped when Jon opened his mouth to ask. “I don’t know why she picked me.”

“Who is she?” Ygritte asked from her corner. 

“I don’t know that either,” Gendry replied glumly, “I just know what I have to do. I have to save them. That’s what Magister Illyrio says it means anyways. Lord Varys and Prince Tyrion agree.”

Prince Tyrion replied, “He is bastard born with no title, no family, no true name, no risks... my father will love that. He is a true Baratheon which my father will also know upon seeing his face as all of you who knew and… _loved_ Robert knew.” Oberyn scoffed but the Imp pretended not to hear, “Losing a Baratheon to the curse will not harm my Father and gaining a potential Baratheon ally if Gendry succeeds would be a boon to him."

Jon argued, “I am bastard born with no title, no true name, nor risks - “

“But you have family. What will your brother, King Bran, do if we lose you? What will King Doran do? They will go to war. None of us can afford that. We would lose it all," Prince Tyrion reminded Jon. 

Jon misliked the Imp's words but knew he was right. Bran would go to to war over Jon, even if Catelyn Stark begged her son not to. 

“And what about me, Prince Tyrion?” Mance Rayder spoke, his voice gravelly, “ _What will they do for me_?”

The Imp laughed although it was obviously a false one. It rang with frustration and worries and so when the dwarf Prince spoke, it was marked with fear, “For you, _singer_ , your people will cut my head off and use my skull to decorate their table. It’d be a lovely decoration, I’m sure, but I’d rather that not happen.”

“You know who he is?” Jon asked.

“As soon as that girl opened her mouth I did,” Tyrion said pointing at Ygritte who scowled at him. Jon hoped she wasn’t thinking about stabbing the prince. "She's a spearwife by the look of her. Although why you're aligning yourself with the wildlings, I couldn't say."

_But you could say_ , Jon thought, remembering the Vale's clans of wildlings and how Tyrion banded them together during the Long War to work for him and his Lannister army. Tyrion Lannister truly was an imp, as much as he hated the nickname.

“So I’m going,” Gendry said, stubbornly, bringing the true matter back into the conversation. His features looked even more Baratheon when he had a stubborn look in his blue eyes, Jon noted, remembering how his own father disagreed with King Robert of the Stormlands about something, about what Jon couldn’t say or remember. But Jon _could_ still remember how the King Robert's jaw twitched in anger and how his blue eyes hardened.

Jon sighed, and wondered if this was how his own kingly father felt upon dealing with King Robert, “Fine. You’re going. But you won’t be without help.”

“Of course not,” Prince Oberyn agreed, smiling at Gendry, “We shall prepare you and assist you.”

“Winter is coming,” Ygritte stated, but her smile was directed at Jon. It was not light and sunny like Oberyn’s, no, it was as dark as a weirwood tree - as cold as the Wall that separated her kingdom from theirs.

Jon loved her for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm done my first year of grad school (woo), finished last week, but I'm already working/writing for an internship so I'm still pretty busy. As usual will try to get the next chapter out between 1-3 weeks!


	19. Intermission: Qyburn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Qyburn reflects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make sure you didn't miss the previous chapter before reading this one!

**_Intermission: Qyburn_ **

* * *

 Qyburn was mystified.

What was he to do with all this gold?

He supposed he could buy whores from Littlefinger and perform experiments on them. It was an interesting idea worth investigating, although Littlefinger was very stingy with his products. _Perhaps they could arrange some sort of deal_ , Qyburn mused.

But then there might be questions on how Qyburn came into so much gold. He was known as a former maester and a mummer, not as a rich man.  And Littlefinger would enjoy this secret far too much. It wouldn’t be a good idea for a man like _that_ to figure out that truth.

Qyburn fingered the gold piece that Cersei had given him earlier that day.

Perhaps he should stop charging the little Lannister princess so much for the potions. But the woman seemed to relish paying him the coin and the ingredients were to hard to come by.

He wondered if she knew how the spell she bought from him could be broken.

No matter. 

The curse muddled the thoughts of those living in the castle - making it hard to see the truth of the curse. 

So the golden princess would never find out how the spell could be broken if the gods were good, although Qyburn knew they weren’t. And so the spell would be broken and Cersei would lose everything.

Her beauty would be a shadow. All of her true nature would be revealed.

She put too much of herself into it.

The Maesters had always frowned on his experiments and Qyburn supposed that this was why. 

_It cost too much._  

Too much gold, too much sense, too much beauty, too much life, too much power - just too much.

Qyburn never minded paying the price. But he suspected that while Cersei did not mind the gold price she may mind the iron one.

Especially when, no, _if_ the curse breaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felt as though a short intermission was needed since we're now halfway (!!!) to the end. Next time the ball will really start rolling and questions will start being answered!
> 
> Also now that I added this, expect the "real" next chapter between 1-3 weeks!


	20. Cersei II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei learns of the princesses' conditions.

_** Cersei II ** _

* * *

 When Cersei arrived at the door, the guards who stood outside the princess’ room almost gaped at her presence until she glared and ordered them to open the doors. _They would be punished_ , she thought angrily, before stepping inside the realm of the curse. Almost immediately, Cersei was greeted by the fetid smell of bare feet. Trying not to gasp or grimace, Cersei instead smiled at her enemies. 

Most of the princesses were sitting up in the beds looking bored or tired. 

Cersei wished that the girls looked paler. That their eyes were losing light.

But most of them looked fine to her considering it had been months of this now. How much more of the wretched potion did they need before they died? 

“Princess Cersei,” Margaery Tyrell greeted, a insipid, calculated smile on her face. She looked haggard, Cersei was pleased to notice, although her brown eyes were still much too bright. “What ever brings you here? I am sure we are not worth noticing, especially since we are so ill. It wouldn’t do for you to catch our sickness.”

The stupid girl’s eyes were too sharp then and Cersei misliked it, but she smiled, pretending that she was twisting the whore’s neck, “I have come to see if there is anything I can do for you in this troubling time.”

She eyed the beds and sniffed. While it did not yet smell of death, it did smell of sweat. 

Arya Stark glared at Cersei from her bed and she looked as if she wanted to say some words, but the stupid Stark, Sansa, leapt across the small space between their beds and held her back.

_ Perhaps she wasn’t so stupid after all. _

The whore of Tyrell spoke again, not letting any of the other eleven princesses speak. She thought of herself as a leader, as the true princess, Cersei knew. Perhaps the whore even wanted to be Queen. 

She would never get Jaime.

“There is no need to visit us, but I thank you all the same. It is quite kind of you. Won’t you sit?” Margaery asked, patting the spot in front of her on the bed.

Cersei shook her head, “No, there is no need, I would like to stand. Sitting makes me feel so very… helpless.”

The younger Stark girl almost fell out of her bed in fury, before Sansa gripped Arya’s forearms. A few of the other princesses looked miffed as well, namely Princess Asha, whose jaw looked tighter than a septa’s legs.

Princess Shireen, whose bed sat closest to the door, smiled at Cersei, “I wish I could stand too,” she confessed, “I am so very tired of sitting, although Prince Tyrion is very kind and sends me books to read.”

_Tyrion._

“Prince Tyrion is in contact with you?”

“Quite often, Princess Cersei,” Margaery supplied, her eyes glinting. “It is so kind of _both_ princes to visit us so often.”

_The wicked bitch,_ Cersei thought, seething, but flattened her expression into a look of boredom. “I did not realize they had enough free time for such things.”

Daenerys looked as if she was about to start talking. The Valyrian princess. Sometimes when Cersei looked at her, she remembered Prince Rhaegar of Dragonstone and King’s Landing. The boy she dreamed of marrying when she was a child, almost as much as she dreamed of Jaime.

Rhaegar was beautiful and so was his sister. 

He was also dead and soon his sister would be joining him.

Cersei’s smiled as the silver-haired princess spoke, “They are investigating our illness. With sick hostages comes the talk of war, as I’m sure you already know, Princess. You are so well-versed in such matters.”

War, as if that mattered. The Lannister armies would smash all the rest as they did once before once the precious princesses were dead.

“But both visit you?” Cersei prodded, “Shouldn’t only one need to do so?”

The Martell slut, Arianne, smirked, “Only one Prince visits us every day. Prince Jaime has been very attentive. He comes to us every morning and attends to us.” 

Cersei knew Jaime had visited the tower before, but had not realized he had done it so often as that. _That could be a problem._

“And what does he do? Fetch books for our little Baratheon princess?” Cersei asked, watching the mottled princess smile at the thought. As if Shireen understood what was truly going on. She was too young and stupid to realize anything that mattered.

“He asks us questions before we break our fast and then leaves us be. There is nothing more to it than that,” the ugly bitch, Brienne, said before anyone else could answer, her eyes staring at the wall ahead of her.

_Something was wrong here_ , Cersei sensed, although she could not discern what it was. Margaery Tyrell looked entirely too pleased with herself for there to be something right, as did all the other sluts and whores.

_Yet they were the ones dying_ , Cersei reminded herself, her rage quelling. 

“Well, I shall leave you to it,” she said at last, “Please let me know if there is anything I can do for you girls.”

“Oh, we will let you know,” Margaery trilled, “After all, it has always felt like you’re our _older_ _and wiser_ sister.”

Cersei smiled back, knowing that soon, they would all be dead, “I am so glad you think so. As your sister, sweetling, I’d advise you to get some rest. You all look so very tired.”

And with that she swept away from them.

The visit wasn’t a success, Cersei realized. They weren’t near death, not as they should be after so long. Perhaps Lancel wasn’t putting in enough of the potion in their wine. Perhaps he had stopped doing it at all. 

Lancel was incompetent but she couldn’t trust Jaime with this task. He had softened since the days before the Long War, when they were young, beautiful, and in love. Where he would kill anyone and anything for her. 

Although she didn’t always need him for that. Sometimes a slip and a push would do all the same.

Robert Baratheon had wanted to marry her, as she was the most beautiful woman in the land, and she had almost been delighted with the idea, imagining herself as Queen of the Stormlands had been a fine thought, even when her younger self remembered that Jaime would be far away from her. Robert Baratheon was handsome and strong and Cersei felt as if he could match up to both the image of Rhaegar and the reality of Jaime, despite how old he was in comparison to herself. 

But when all he did was mope about Lyanna Stark and go whoring, embarrassing Cersei in front of others, Cersei knew she could not marry such a man, even as her father tightened the wedding noose around her neck. So a nicely arranged slip and fall off one of the towers of Winterfell occurred with little problems. She was only a suspect later, when the stupid little boy had found her and Jaime together in the middle of their lovemaking, and Jaime had done the foolish thing and pushed him out of the tower.

There were other ways to make a little boy silent permanently, she had told him, near tears. And even then, incest was not the worst of the sins they could be caught for, as the Targaryens practiced it, she said to him, half-lying. 

But Jaime had been frightened for Cersei, frightened that they would harm her. He did not care of his own death, nor did he dislike the idea of telling the truth, it was all he had ever wanted then. But Robert Baratheon’s death was still heavy on everyone’s minds and knowing that his almost betrothed was truly in her brother’s bed would have confirmed much of the rumors swirling around Cersei.

And if that stupid boy had died the Long War would not have happened at all. 

Or if some idiot didn’t send a dagger that used to belong to the Lannister armory. 

Or if Catelyn Stark stayed at home.

Or if Stannis and Renly hadn't become so enamored with the idea of being King.

Instead, the world became engaged with madness.  And now Cersei was stuck with twelve princesses who were all rotting in their beds. 

Although, they needed to be rotting faster.  They needed to be dead already.

Perhaps Qyburn had a stronger curse. One that would harm the princesses quickly.  But he would have already sold it to her if he had anything better than this.

She opened the door to her chambers and frowned at the mirror. Lancel may not be loyal enough, she realized, thinking on his behavior. She would have to either show him what she meant by a reward or lock him out of her bedchamber.

Perhaps she would reward him then lock him out.

Or grant him some gold.

Debating, she opened up her top drawer and removed the false bottom, where a bag of gold awaited. It was not much, only enough to buy a horse. 

Was that truly all she had left?

She pulled out all the drawers hurriedly, then angrily, and then almost tearfully, only finding a few other small bags, barely worth anything at all.

_What happened to the coins?_ Cersei once had to hide the gold all over her room in locations that only Jaime would know, although he’d never look for them. Now there were only four small bags.

She would have to go back to the treasury. There were a few more potions left in her possession, not nearly enough to last another month. She would need more gold to pay off Qyburn. 

Although she could try to pay him in other methods, but Cersei doubted he’d be interested in anything between her legs. 

A knock on the door disrupted her thoughts and she threw the bags of gold into a drawer and then demanded the other person to name themselves. 

“It’s your favorite brother,” Tyrion called out, laughing at his own joke. Cersei could hear one of her guards laugh as well and realized she would have to be rid of him. No man who could laugh with Tyrion would be protecting her.

Cersei gritted her teeth and tried not to look in the mirror. She was not as beautiful when she was angry, although she could care less when it was Tyrion coming into her room, “Come in.”

He waddled in as the guards let him enter, looking horrifying as ever, with his mismatched eyes and overly large head. Cersei hated the sight of him. “What do you want?” she demanded, not in the mood to play his games.

“Only your delightful company,” he japed. She glared back and he smiled so wide that he looked even uglier. “Why can’t a brother seek the company of his sister?”  His tone was too casual and so Cersei knew that Tyrion meant Jaime. How Tyrion ever discovered the truth of Jaime and herself, she would never know. They were so careful, so discreet, that it seemed impossible that the Imp would find them out.

_But he knew and had known for a long time._

“Get to the point, _brother_ ,” Cersei said, looking away from him and folding her arms. 

“I feel as if you should know that Father has requested funds from the Iron Bank.”

Cersei was startled, “The Iron Bank? We cannot be in such a mess. And if we are it’s thanks to you! What kind of Master of Coin are you?”

“One that is dealing with forces bigger than the both of us,” Tyrion retorted, actually looking angry. He looked like an Imp now more than ever, Cersei thought, backing away and reaching at the necklace that hung around her throat nervously. _The valonqar…_

He shook his head, unaware of her change in demeanor, “It doesn’t matter, Father has looked into everything personally now, and has seen the truth of it. We will have to raise taxes again and soon to pay off this debt. I mislike it but what are we to do when money is disappearing?”

Tyrion was a good liar, Cersei knew, but this rang true.

Money was disappearing.

They were in debt.

He had not been lying. He may never have been lying about this.

Cersei’s dips into the treasury had been noticeable.

And soon Tyrion would know who did it. Soon he would tell their Father.

Soon the valonqar would kill her.

When she remained silent, Tyrion sighed, “I am sorry to leave you in such a melancholy state about this, but Father wanted me to tell you. Jaime would have but he is doing one of Father’s errands.”

Cersei snapped her head up and stared into Tyrion's eyes, “Like visiting the princesses?”

Tyrion’s surprise confirmed her worst fears, “Well, yes. He has done that for Father.”

_And for himself,_ Cersei knew, watching Tyrion shift and waddle in discomfort. Which one of the princesses had caught Jaime’s eye? Perhaps it was Daenerys, with her silver hair that caught in the sunlight. She had an iron heart, Cersei recognized, and a beautiful figure.

Cersei wondered if she could somehow arrange it so that Daenerys died first.

The Targaryen family was disintegrated and gone, there would be no backlash from her death.

Only Jaime would cry for her and Cersei would weep with him and kiss him and hold him. He would be back in her bed by the week’s end.

After seeing that she had no more words for him, Tyrion bowed and apologized and quickly left the room, leaving Cersei alone with her thoughts.

If the gold was truly ending, then Cersei could not depend solely on the curse. It may kill most by the end, but not all would be dead.

And Tyrion would need to die soon. He had looked so angry and terrible at just her small comments regarding his competency, he would kill her if he knew the truth of it all. 

She refused to die by his hands. She would have to find a way to eliminate them all if the curse did not strike them.

Cersei thought on Daenerys again and wondered if the little whore had welcomed Jaime into her bed. She probably had, and the princesses had probably all heard it. They all saw Jaime in his full glory, even with his missing hand, kissing and sucking and pumping.

Only Cersei was allowed to see Jaime like that. No dragon could -

Cersei laughed. _Dragon_. _Wildfire._  

Wildfire… how simple… how perfect. _The dragon would die by her own weapon_.

While gold was near gone, wildfire was still in abundance from the Long War. Tyrion had accumulated much of it and used it in battles. There was still some left and Cersei suspected it would only take a few closed mouths (and deaths) to accomplish what she wanted to do.

If the curse didn't kill them all by the end of the month, wildfire would. Cersei would prefer the curse as it was much more subtle and could be blamed on a terrible, misunderstood illness. But wildfire would accomplish her goals just as well.

Lancel would help, she knew, as would Littlefinger, who would need very little from Cersei. Qyburn would be obligated to help her as she would give the bodies to him after they were killed. 

The courtyard would need to be surrounded by buckets of wildfire, as would the princesses’ tower. The princess’ tower was the most important target as it held not only the princesses but Tyrion’s study. Perhaps Tyrion’s bedchamber would need some as well, but Tyrion was rarely there, preferring to stay in his study all day.

It would work. 

She could defeat them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this literally in about an hour. Cersei is scary easy for me to write. Should I be concerned about this? ;) 
> 
> Anyways, as per usual expect the next chapter between 1-3 weeks! I hope you enjoyed it!!!


	21. Tyrion II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion participates in a meeting.

_** Tyrion II ** _

* * *

 

The golden lion sigil seemed almost a jape now when Tyrion looked upon it. The crest his father wore on his chest mocked them all. _A half-man, a cripple, and a madwoman_ , he thought, remembering Cersei’s eyes when he visited her earlier, dark and frightened. _This is your legacy, Father._

The King did not seem to notice Tyrion’s glum demeanor, instead he was staring at the two letters in front of him, with pensive eyes. King Tywin’s lips were pressing against each other so hard that Tyrion wondered if there had ever been a case of bruised lips that wasn’t caused by a lover. 

“Well,” Tyrion finally ventured after staring at his father’s head for another two minutes, “What are your thoughts?”

“I’m wondering why you didn’t bring Lord Baelish in here as well. He is my Hand,” the King said, his eyes sharply examining Tyrion.

Tyrion hated when his father did that. “Well, Lord Baelish is rather busy, managing his whores, writing letters to Catelyn Stark,” he responded, lingering on Catelyn Stark's name.

“Under my orders,” his father said, which surprised Tyrion. 

“The whores or Catelyn Stark?” Tyrion muttered, incapable of stopping himself from making the jape due to his shock.

The King did not laugh, “Do not test me, Tyrion.”

“But why tell him to send letters to Catelyn Stark?” Tyrion asked.

“He’s been writing letters to all the families.”

“Do you even know what sorts of letters he sends, Father? He sends the woman personal letters!”

“What is your point, Tyrion?” the King demanded gruffly.

“My point is that you’re trusting him?”

If his father was capable of rolling his eyes, Tyrion felt as if Tywin would be doing that at this moment. Instead, he just glared at Tyrion, his eyes and mouth tight with irritation, “I do not trust him at all. He is a dishonest man. I know he has his own plans, that he possibly even wants to attempt a marriage to Cersei. But I like keeping an eye on him. I dislike it when he is away from my table.”

Tyrion blanched at the image of Cersei and Littlefinger together. That would be either the funniest or most horrifying thing that could ever happen to his sister.

But he mustered on, “But his letters to Catelyn Stark are what caused the Stark boy to send this letter,” Tyrion said, pointing at the letter that had been sealed with a direwolf sigil. 

The other letter’s seal was also broken. It had been a bright sun with an arrow poking through it. 

“He’d send it anyway in due time,” Tywin almost sighed. “I am sure this was a planned event. The stupid man may have just accelerated it.”

“Should we be expecting letters from the roses as well?” Tyrion asked, purposefully not mentioning the kraken or the stag. He already knew they were both sending their own men to take back what was theirs.

It was to be war soon if their plan did not work.

Especially once the princesses started dying, which Tyrion suspected was soon. They were too drained and pale. 

Jaime had been erratic and worried the night before, thinking of his _wench_ and her recent bout with illness, cursing in Tyrion’s rooms, until Tyrion felt as if he had to reveal the plan to him.

Jaime, of course, hated all of it, and demanded to be the one in the room. Tyrion had almost been amused. Jaime’s arguments were nearly the same as Jon Snow’s. 

Jaime and Jon would get along splendidly if Jon could get past the fact that Jaime pushed his near baby brother out the room. A three year old child, gone out the window, forever changing the fate of nearly everyone in the kingdoms.

And now once again, a boy (although this one was closer to a man than little Bran) would be deciding everyone’s fates. 

Including Tyrion’s own.

“The Tyrells have sent their own letter long ago. I expect that the Queen of Thorns will be here within a fortnight,” his father replied, as he peered at Doran Martell’s letter.

“Was it as similar in phrasing as these are?”

“No, it was quite different. Very… Olenna,” Tywin said dryly, his lip almost curling. Tyrion wasn’t sure what to make of that. He had never met Olenna Tyrell, he was not there when the woman had dropped off all the Tyrell princesses, although she apparently made a distinct impression upon Casterly Rock.

Cersei hated her.

Then again, Cersei hated nearly everyone.

Except Jaime.

“Well…” Tyrion said, uncomfortable, “Oberyn Martell has requested an audience with you. He should be waiting in the solar, actually. I can send him away if you’d wish.”

Twin nodded, once again frowning at Tyrion. Now that was a familiar look, “Send him in, but I want you to stay in here. The man likes you. For some reason.”

“I’d say it was probably the whores but he hates Baelish so it couldn’t be that,” Tyrion smiled, although it dimmed at the furious look on his father’s face. “Ah well, I’ll bring him in.”

Oberyn Martell was chatting with the guards when Tyrion entered the solar. The guard looked almost at ease, which worried Tyrion. Oberyn Martell was more dangerous than even Jaime. They may all have a shared goal, but Tyrion didn’t doubt that Oberyn would kill them all if he thought it’d be a productive use of his time. 

“Tyrion Lannister! Finally going to let me in to see your Father?” Oberyn asked once he saw Tyrion’s face. “You’re a very important man, I hear.”

Tyrion made himself smile, feigning ease, “I’m such a small man, I doubt I can be that important.”

Oberyn laughed, “That is the biggest lie I have ever heard, from the smallest man I have ever known.”

“The smallest? I doubt that, knowing how you travel.” Tyrion said, nodding at the guard who opened the door for them. Oberyn laughed again as he followed Tyrion into the room, the boom of it irritating Tyrion.

They were supposed to be allies, yet why did Tyrion feel so ill at ease?

“Does your Father know our plan as of yet?” Oberyn whispered once they could not be heard by the guard. They were in a little alcove right between King Tywin’s official room and the solar. There was a glass window and Oberyn leaned on it, staring down at Tyrion with a heavy, dark gaze. Tyrion misliked it.

“No, I’ve told him nothing, as we all decided,” Tyrion said, feeling irritated that Oberyn was even asking. 

“I was going to tell him. Will you also be in the room?” Oberyn asked.

Tyrion nodded, “I thought we were supposed to wait to tell him though. Wasn’t that what the Northerners and you wanted?”

“Times have changed, the girls seem to be sicker according to Varys’ little birds.”

Fucking Varys’ little birds, Tyrion swore internally. One step ahead of them all as usual. Or he was making things up to accelerate his own plans, whatever those may be. Or Oberyn was lying.

Tyrion didn’t care though. He had wanted to tell his Father their plan if only to prove that he could come up with something to solve this mess before it exploded.

“Well, shall we go in?” Oberyn asked, while Tyrion thought. 

Tyrion marched ahead into the room where Tywin awaited. The letters that had been on his desk had disappeared and now there were only candles, illuminating Tywin’s strong gaze. 

“King Tywin,” Oberyn greeted, “It is kind of you to allow me to visit your rooms.”

“You are welcome here,” the King said, frowning as if he meant the exact opposite. Which, Tyrion supposed, he did, “I am pleased that you understand why we cannot yet allow you to visit your niece.”

Oberyn’s smile waned for a short moment before he plastered one back on his face. _How uncomfortable can three men be with each othe_ r, Tyrion marveled, right as Oberyn called for wine.

“That’ll settle our nerves as we discuss some things,” Oberyn said, his smile playful.

“What sort of wine?” Tyrion asked, thankful to talk about something that he knew about. Alcohol was almost always a safe topic, “Is there a specific vintage you prefer?”

“Well, we did bring Dornish Red to you all the way from home,” Oberyn said, almost winking, referring to his time mumming as a merchant. Tyrion noted that his father did not seem amused at the reference but the king rang for the servant anyway, muttering his orders quietly. 

“Is that all you’d like, Prince Oberyn?” Tywin asked, his hands folded on top of his desk. 

Prince Oberyn nodded, leering at the servant for a moment, “Ah yes, that would be all that is necessary. I believe it will allow us to speak more frankly.”

The poor servant looked nervous as Tywin pointed him out the door. Prince Oberyn was infamous even amongst the servant, _especially_ amongst the servants, Tyrion realized with a jolt. Hopefully the servant wasn't one of Littlefinger's if Oberyn and Ellaria brought the man into their bed.

As they sat in near silence, Tywin asking after King Doran and his other children with stunted grace, Prince Oberyn purposefully bringing up his bastard children, making Tywin grimace, Tyrion was suddenly very thankful that wine was coming. He just hoped that the servant would bring enough for the next part of the conversation.

Even without wine, Tyrion felt as if the true matter needed to be brought up, sooner rather than later. “Prince Oberyn is here for a reason, Father,” Tyrion said, making his Father look up at him with his hard eyes, “We have come up with a possible solution to our… _problem_.”

“The illness you mean,” the King corrected Tyrion, his hard eyes not leaving him even as the wine was brought in. Prince Oberyn shooed the servant away, which Tyrion was grateful for, it’d be harder to discuss this when ears were listening, and then poured the wine into the goblets, handing each man their own. Grateful, Tyrion drank his, watching his father and Prince Oberyn do the same. 

“He knows more than he ought, Father. Not my doing,” Tyrion quickly said after sipping his wine, seeing his father’s rage rising, “You can ask him how he knows, as I am unsure of how the truth came to him. But still, we’ve… come up with a plan.”

Prince Oberyn drank out of his goblet with enthusiasm before responding, “One that will probably fail but none of us want that. I want my niece to be healthy and live a long life. While we’d prefer her in Dorne, we will allow her to stay here if you give us the rights to agree to any marriage you arrange for her. That is all we ask from this bargain before we tell you our plan.”

Tyrion raised his eyebrows in surprise. _The North would not like this_. 

Tywin sipped his own wine, and then asked what Tyrion was thinking, “And what of the Northerners? I know they are here, sulking and licking their old wounds somewhere in Lannisport. And I assume they helped you come up with this.”

Oberyn smirked, “I see you are not without your own contacts. I can assure you that the bastard Jon Snow is a reasonable man, an honorable one much like his... _kingly_ father, and you may be able to come into some sort of accord with him after our plan has succeeded. The wildling King, however, may not see reason. I would suggest that you give up his princess. I cannot imagine she’s worth as much to you as the rest. The King beyond the Wall will not attack you again.”

Tywin nodded but then frowned, “But how are you to solve this problem and gain all of this?”

“Secrecy,” Tyrion answered, “We have not kept any of this secret beforehand, everyone knew when the men were coming in, we greeted them with honor and respect and now they’re missing. There is a young bastard boy willing to possibly sacrifice his life for this.”

“A bastard?” Tywin scowled, taking another sip of his wine,“Whose bastard?”

“His name is Gendry Waters,” Oberyn remarked, almost defensively, as if he thought of the boy as a son. “And he is the exact image of Robert Baratheon.”

“One of Robert’s?” Tywin repeated, sipping his wine casually, “That is interesting.”

“We’d lose nothing if we lost him. Especially since this is secret,” Tyrion said, jumping to the facts, ignoring Oberyn’s scowl, “His mother is dead and out of all the possible volunteers he is the one that makes the most sense. No one else possibly capable of spying on the girls is willing to do it. And... according to a few sources the boy has the ability to hide better than anyone else."

Prince Oberyn raised his eyebrows at that, but the King said nothing for a moment. Although if  his Father could sigh, Tyrion imagined he would have at this moment. “I doubt this will work,” King Tywin admitted, “But I will let you conspire and I will speak not of it.”

Tyrion relaxed. “Of course, Father,” he said but the King wasn’t finished speaking yet.

“Just make sure Jaime stays out of your plans," he ordered sternly. "I do not want my heir to be a part of this nonsense anymore than he already has been."

_May the Stranger take them both_ , Tyrion cursed, thinking of how Jaime took him aside and jabbered at him about the plans. Jaime would never agree to staying out of it. 

But Prince Oberyn agreed before Tyrion could attempt a lie, "Of course, King Tywin. I doubt that Prince Jaime would be interested in such a thing anyways."

_If only that was true_ , Tyrion thought. Because somehow, someway, Tywin would find out that Jaime was involved. He looked unconvinced as it was, a singular brow raised in doubt, his mouth stern. 

Tyrion wondered if that was the face his father would have when he passed on, a face of dripping disappointment.  Still Prince Oberyn smiled as if his lie had been convincing, and drank his wine, his eyes almost dancing above the rim. If only King Tywin's eyes looked so happy as he sipped his own wine. But they looked as tired as Tyrion felt.

This idiotic plan had to work.

Or else Oberyn's eyes would be dancing over their graves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I released this a little early because I'm not sure if I'll have time tomorrow to post! Plus I kind of just wanted to be done this chapter lol. It was a difficult one to write, especially after how easy it was to write Cersei.  
> Anyhow, thank you for reading! If you'd like to (but no pressure!) leave a comment! I like hearing that people are enjoying the story!


	22. Podrick II

**_ Podrick II _ **

* * *

Podrick shifted in his cot. 

He wondered if the princesses were asleep and dreaming. He hoped they were - it wasn’t fair how they, who were already victims of a terrible war and separated from their families, had to suffer through a… disease.

And yet they were still able to smile. 

When Prince Jaime asked Podrick to check in on the princesses earlier that morning, in Prince Jaime’s stead, Podrick had been nervous. It would have been the first time he had seen any of them in person in a very long time. He would sometimes see the princesses in the windows and they would wave at him, but that wasn’t the same as seeing their faces drawn and withered. He had heard so much of their condition from the servants, who always thought he wasn’t listening as he stood by them waiting for one of the princes to come out from their rooms. They spoke often about how even the most beautiful princesses now had fading looks. 

Yet Sansa smiled at him when he came into the room. Not just once but three different times, as he asked the questions Prince Jaime ordered him to ask. None of the princesses answered but Prince Jaime told Podrick to expect that. 

She looked as pretty as he remembered, although her skin looked too pale. But they all looked pale, even the darker Princess Arianne of Dorne who stared up at the ceiling as if she was waiting for the night. 

He wanted to help them but how could he? He was not a knight, just a simple squire who stuttered when Princess Sansa smiled at him. 

But they were all so thin, looking more like starving peasants than well-fed princesses. 

He couldn’t find Prince Jaime until later to report what had occurred. So instead he wandered around Casterly Rock, feeling a bit like he did when he had first arrived at the castle when he was but a child of eight. The rock engulfed him and for a moment Podrick couldn’t feel the sun, which had been pressing its warmth against his back, but the castle hidden in the Rock was aglow, all the towers and parapets and hidden alcoves just beyond reach.

For the first time, Podrick didn’t understand why Prince Jaime was so hesitant to be heir, Casterly Rock was beautiful when the darkness was chased out.

Unbidden, Podrick thought of the princesses again, as he lay in his cot, remembering the rising sun and the long shadows. 

Who was going to save them? They needed saving. Prince Oberyn would try something, Podrick suspected, although the man was so focused on vengeance… from what Podrick heard of him. He wasn’t called the Red Viper of Dorne for no reason.

The man was too rash, Podrick thought, staring out of his window. He could almost hear the sea lapping at the rock. 

The princesses needed someone cautious but still unafraid. 

Podrick blushed as he imagined himself with a glowing, healthy Sansa kissing him on the cheek. He wouldn’t be able to save her though. He knew that. He’d been around them for months and heard from Prince Tyrion and Prince Jaime how impossible it was - they still weren’t even sure what started all this. Only that it started not long before Prince Jaime came home. 

Restlessness came over him and Podrick got out of his bed, feeling as if he was catching the same horror that was overcoming the princesses. He could not sleep thinking of their fates. 

With trepidation, he dressed himself, and walked out of his room, hurrying in the dark hallways, trying not to look suspicious as a guard glanced at him.

One questioned him and he stuttered out that he was running an errand for Prince Jaime and was let go. 

Being the squire of the Crown Prince held its advantages.

One being that he could knock on that Prince’s door and know that he would still be awake. Podrick could see the light shifting under the door’s frame and it soon opened revealing a tired Jaime Lannister. His beard was darker and stronger now than before and Podrick was surprised that the King had not yet made Prince Jaime shave it. 

“Pod?” Prince Jaime asked, after allowing him inside his room. The room was mostly dark, with the windows covered by long red drapes and only a few candles lit, one on a table in between two chairs. Podrick recalled an evening where the two princes had played cards together, laughing and japing as brothers do. Long before any of this started. “What are you doing here?”

Podrick sat in one of the chairs, the one that was typically used by Prince Tyrion. “What is going to happen to them?” 

Prince Jaime sat across from Podrick in a wooden chair and sighed. “I won’t pretend that I don’t know what you mean. The answer to your question is unfortunately unclear.”

“It’s not natural though?” Podrick asked, thinking of how even Brienne, the strongest woman he had ever known, as she trained him when Prince Jaime was too busy, one of the only people kind enough to see past his stutter, looked so weak in her bed. 

Prince Jaime shook his head, “I have no idea. But we’re hoping to find out the truth.”

Podrick had suddenly realized how strange and demanding it was to go to his prince and demand answers and suddenly flushed. But he still had another question. “Who is we? If I may ask, Prince Jaime.”

Prince Jaime smirked then, “You have been asking a lot of questions already, squire, and I do not mind answering them.” His expression sobered, “It is a whole cavalcade of allies who will probably do us harm the moment we fail. Or even if we succeed.”

“Is there anything I can do to help, Prince Jaime?” Podrick asked, desperate to do something - anything to help them. Their drawn faces haunted his thoughts and eyes and he wanted to wash it all away until they were happy and smiling again.

Prince Jaime fixed him with a serious look, “Why do you even want to help, Pod?”

“Because they’re kind to me. Most of them anyways,” Podrick tried to explain, “Even when I stutter. They’re good.”

Prince Jaime looked away from Podrick and softened, “I would not say all of them are good, have you heard Arya Stark curse? But… yes, I know what you mean.”

Podrick knew that the Prince was thinking of Princess Brienne and tried not to smile. 

“Podrick, I think I know what you can do,” Prince Jaime said suddenly. “And if you do well enough, well, I believe there could be a knighthood in your future.”

“I would do it anyways.”

Prince Jaime smiled, although it was rougher than his other smiles, “Perhaps I should knight you now. You have a better vision of knighthood than most.”

Podrick ducked his head in embarrassment. 

“I would like you to spy on Lord Baelish,” the Prince stated, pretending as if he didn’t see Podrick’s blush. “I feel as though he has something to do with this although I could not say what or why.”

“What about Princess Cersei?” Podrick asked before he could help it. He shut his mouth quickly afterwards while Prince Jaime threw him a shrewd look that seemed to belong on Prince Tyrion’s face. Prince Jaime rarely looked that shrewd.

“What about my sister?”

“Couldn’t she have something to do with it?”

Prince Jaime blinked and sat up straighter, as if thinking it over. “It has crossed my mind, but surely she wouldn’t.”

“As you say, Prince Jaime,” Podrick said quickly, “I did not mean to offend you.”

Prince Jaime stared out into space as if Podrick hadn’t spoken. Podrick watched the dancing flame of the candlelight instead, trying to disregard the silence.

“I have things to think on, Pod,” Jaime said when he stirred. “Go to bed. We shall talk more in the morning.”

Podrick got up and bowed and pretended as if the look on Prince Jaime’s face didn’t worry him.

But it did. 

Podrick had only seen the expression of pure dread once before, on a woman’s face who saw the banners of the Lion and assumed that Prince Jaime had come to take away more of her children and her life. She knelt in the muddy grass and begged them to kill her rather than to murder and rape her surviving daughters.

Prince Jaime had eventually calmed the woman and found the knights who debased themselves and the poor women in such a way, beheading them both, but Podrick had never been able to remove the look of dread from his memory. The woman’s wide eyes that held no tears, the tense features, the open mouth that was breathing so softly as if she was afraid to breathe too loud. 

That expression had been on the Prince’s face now. 

And now Podrick would be haunted by it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait for such a short chapter! The rest are much longer! This one is important in the long run but it didn't need to be very long. I just had to make sure it worked correctly! Plus I got distracted with actual work and real life stuff (as well as other fanfiction because I apparently am an idiot who wants to juggle several fanfiction universes at once). 
> 
> Anyways, thank you all for your patience and I hoped you enjoyed it!


	23. Gendry IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry meets his princess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is fairly short - I originally planned to have it longer, but honestly the second half wasn't working and it also wasn't necessary so I cut it.  
> Anyways I hope you enjoy!

**_Gendry IV_ **

* * *

Gendry hesitated. 

He shouldn’t be doing this he knew. 

Everyone would be furious with him. He knew this.

Yet… 

He chewed on his bottom lip before deciding. Within moments he was bent over on the ground on all fours, reaching for any sort of pebble that had crumbled from the rock that encompassed the castle’s exterior. 

It was hard to see anything at all - it was so dark- but he easily grasped a few pebbles in his fist and pushed himself off the ground with a grimace, shaking off the dirt and stones that had attached themselves to his shirt.

With a furtive glance around the yard, Gendry reached back, aimed as well as he could in the dark, and threw a pebble.

It ricocheted off the stone of the tower, almost hitting Gendry in the forehead. Scowling, he squinted until he could see the window better, hoping that it was the right one, and threw another pebble.

This one hit the window and so Gendry waited. 

But nothing happened.

His thoughts growing more gruesome and annoyed, he reached back to throw another and missed again.

The guards would be coming soon, Gendry recollected. Magister Illyrio had told him this when they met for the first time in the yard outside the princesses’ tower. 

Magister Illyrio was fat, the fattest man Gendry had ever seen, which wasn’t a surprise since most people he knew were starving, yet Gendry never would have imagined that a man could be that large. 

When Lord Varys introduced the Magister to Gendry, both older men twinkling their eyes, Gendry had been put-off by the both of them, feeling as if they had tricks up their billowing sleeves. 

And they probably did. 

Yet, something had been ringing in the back of his head the moment he met the Magister and it was only when the Magister spoke about his youth that Gendry understood _why_.

The fat Magister had spoken of how handsome and strong he used to be, that he was a poor sellsword like Gendry (Gendry had no intent of disabusing the Magister of this notion), and that he missed looking handsome and young. 

“You missed it enough to create a statue dedicated to your youth, did you not?” Lord Varys said to the Magister then, smiling peculiarly. 

“I weep to think of it,” the Magister informed them, “Once I looked like painted marble and now…”

The man had trailed off and the ringing in Gendry’s head had only grown louder. And so, with quick deliberation, he pulled aside the Magister and showed him the cloak, hoping, and praying to whatever gods that were there, that he made the right choice.

Just as he was praying now, as he swung another pebble at one of the tower windows.

But the ringing in his head had stopped the moment the Magister peered at the cloak, smiling that careful smile. “Ah yes,” he said, almost trailing off, “you will have to be the one then.”

And with that as confirmation, Gendry had been swept into being the hero for all the princesses by Magister Illyrio’s hand.

As if he was a piece on a game board. 

Gendry’s scowl grew deeper thinking of it and wondered if that was why he was behaving so recklessly now. Just as he was about to throw another pebble a voice hissed at him from above.

He looked up to see an unfamiliar girl glaring at him. She was blonde and beautiful but he had little interest in her.

“We’re trying to sleep - we barely sleep as it is, why would you do this?” she said, loud enough for him to hear. 

“Um,” he felt foolish. “Is Arya Stark there? Or, uh Sansa Stark?” he added quickly, remembering how Jon Snow mentioned both girls. 

The girl glared, “They’re both asleep.” 

“Oh.” Gendry said quietly but knew the girl couldn’t hear. 

She looked at him carefully, “You’re that man.”

Man? Gendry didn’t know if he had ever been called a man before. “What man?”

“The one talking with the Spider and Magister Illyrio.”

He assumed the spider referred to Lord Varys. “Um, yes?”

She had a smile on now, although even from far away it looked sneaky. “I’ll wake Arya up. She shouldn’t complain too much.”

“No, don’t,” Gendry said, worried about her sleeping habits. “I’ll just go.”

But the girl ignored him and after a few moments of scuffling, Arya Stark stood beside the window.

The girl from his dreams.

Although, if Gendry was being honest, that girl was much prettier.

And didn’t scowl at him.

“What do you want?” she snapped. “I never get to really sleep anymore and you’re waking me up!”

Gendry flushed, “I told her not to.”

“Well she did so what do you want?” Arya demanded, placing her tiny hands on the platform the window rested on. She looked like she was about to fall asleep on it so Gendry hurriedly spoke.

“Your brother is here, well not here -“

“Jon!” Arya straightened up so fast that she hit her head on stone. She grimaced and rubbed her head, but then smiled again, “He’s here? Why haven’t I seen him?”

“I don’t know but he’s coming to get you and your sister.”

She stopped smiling. “He won’t be able to get us.”

There was so much certainty that Gendry wondered what was truly happening to them, “Why not?”

“No matter where we are, it happens.”

Gendry didn’t bother asking what _it_ was, “Then how can we help?”

“Sneak Jon in somehow, I want to see him!” she demanded.

“We can’t do that.”

“Why not?” she huffed. 

Gendry didn’t know, but wasn’t about to admit that. “I don’t know we just can’t,” he said stubbornly. 

“You’re stupid,” she announced, ducking her head away from the window.

“You’re stupider,” he called out, and the Princess’ head reappeared.

“And you really are a _boy_ ,” Arya snapped, “Come back when you have a man’s balls and get my brother in here.” Gendry was about to snap at the princess but then her voice broke, “I miss him.”

So he nodded instead, “I’ll try, m’lady.”

Arya looked at him and Gendry wish that the dawn would come faster so he could see her face clearly. “Good,” she said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual hope you enjoyed and expect the next chapter between 1-3 weeks! Thank you to everyone who reviews, I love reading them.


	24. Brienne II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne tries not to worry.

**_ Brienne II _ **

* * *

 

The dream happened again. Although this time the sword didn’t burn her as terribly as it had before.  Her head wasn’t pounding. Perhaps this time the dream was more a memory of the dream… instead of the dream itself.  Brienne didn’t know and she almost didn’t care.  She closed her eyes and pretended that she was asleep for a moment, even though she could hear the other girls stirring, she needed to pretend that she was resting. 

If she could pretend for long enough, perhaps it would become true. 

“Brienne,” Sansa whispered. Brienne opened her eyes to see the girl beside her. Sansa must have crawled over.

“Yes?” Brienne asked, unwilling to shirk her unspoken duty as a figurative older sister. 

“I didn’t sleep at all last night,” Sansa confided, her voice shaky.

Brienne sat up straight then, although her weak muscles protested the change, “You didn’t? Did anyone else?”

Sansa shook her head, her pale skin glistening in the early sunlight coming from the windows, “I fear I do not know.”

Sansa looked ill, Brienne realized and then wondered if she looked the same. The dark circles, the pale skin, and while Sansa had always been slender, she had never looked so slight and frail.

_ What was happening to them?  _

Sansa looked near tears. “What are we going to do, Brienne?”

Brienne glanced towards Daenarys. While the dragon and her had never seen exactly eye-to-eye, there was respect mingled in their relationship with one another. Respect and a sisterly sort of love and devotion.

Danerys sensed Brienne’s gaze and turned towards her. She frowned. 

Brienne did not dare speak the problem out loud, for fear of worrying the others, who were either still laying in bed quietly or talking amongst themselves of the handsome men that attended them the night before. 

Danerys did not wince as she walked over to Brienne and Sansa. The other girls, even the ones who were feigning sleep, gazed at the princess with awe and fear, as the girl glided over to the bed. 

But when Daenerys was close enough, Brienne could see the beads of sweat that trickled down the silver-haired girl’s face, and quickly grabbed her and forced her to sit on the bed, relieving the princess’ pain.

Sansa gasped as Daenerys cried outright although only Sansa and Brienne could hear her.

“I’m fine,” Daenerys said after a moment, looking as if she wished that she was in the Seven Hells. “Or at least I will be fine.”

“Sansa, you should tell her what you told me,” Brienne whispered once Daenerys situated herself on Brienne’s bed. There were three of them on her tiny bed now and Brienne wasn’t entirely sure how they were managing it. Sansa and Daenerys may have been slight of figure, but Sansa was tall and Brienne was much bigger than the other two girls put together.

Sansa looked wide-eyed and Brienne suddenly recalled Sansa’s slight fear of Daenerys. It was an understandable fear to be sure, a respectable one even, but not helpful at this moment.

“Speak Sansa,” Daenerys demanded. She sounded like a _Queen_ , Brienne thought, before remembering that if Old King’s Landing had not burned, that Daenerys would have been Queen of King’s Landing and Dragonstone.

Instead of a forgotten princess.

“I - I could not sleep.”

“At all?” Daenerys asked.

“Perhaps for about a half hour…” Sansa confessed, looking guiltily at Brienne. Brienne smiled at Sansa reassuringly. 

Even a half hour was too little sleep, Brienne knew, even if Sansa did not realize it. Two hours a night was already doing its damage, but a half hour a night might kill Sansa before the week was up. 

Daenerys closed her eyes and for a moment Brienne couldn’t discern why. It was only when the other girl opened them again that Brienne realized the reason. Her eyes and eyelashes were slick with moisture - the forgotten princess was trying not to cry.

She knew what it meant as well as anyone.

“We need to discover how long everyone is sleeping each night,” Daenerys stated, looking about the room as if she could spy the ones with the least amount of sleep.

If she could discern it, Brienne would have been impressed. At the moment, everyone looked horrible. Dark shadows under the eyes, pale skin - they all looked like walking corpses.

_She had to save them._

“You first, Brienne,” Daenerys said after surveying the room.

Brienne answered quickly, “About two hours.”

Daenerys nodded then confessed, “I am at an hour now, myself.”

“Arya’s at two hours,” Sansa supplied. She looked between Brienne and Daenerys, “Shall I find out the rest?”

“If you can manage to-“ Brienne started to say, feeling protective of the younger girl but Daenerys overrode her.

“Do it,” the dragon commanded.

Sansa smiled and if she could have stood, Brienne imagined that the girl would have curtsied, but instead the redhead bowed her head, before sliding off the bed and crawling to Princess Margaery’s bed.

“We need to struggle against the spell,” Daenerys said after Sansa was gone.

Brienne was startled by Dany’s forwardness, “The spell?”

“You feel it too, don’t pretend you don’t. You’re struggling as hard as I am, as hard as Arya, as hard as Asha, and even Princess Margaery struggles although she pretends she’s not doing any such thing. We cannot afford pretension though, we need to struggle against it together.”

Brienne swallowed her worries. “Will it help?” she asked.

Daenerys smiled, sadly then, as if she was a mother and Brienne was her child, despite the fact she was several years younger than Brienne, “I doubt it.”

Margaery joined them then, before Brienne could ask more about the spell, “I hear no one is sleeping longer than three hours,” she said cheerfully.

Brienne was shocked, “Who is sleeping three hours?” 

“Little Shireen over there, perhaps the greyscale is protecting her,” Margaery said with a laugh, although her eyes were hard.

_She was terrified_ , Brienne realized, remembering how Jaime’s eyes had looked when he confessed his sins to her. Had he been afraid of her then? Afraid of her reaction?

Whatever his feelings were then, it didn’t matter now. She was going to die. Soon.

“What’s the average?” Daenerys demanded of Margaery.

“An hour and a half,” Margaery proclaimed as if this was a success.

“Is Sansa the shortest amount of sleep?” Brienne asked, her heart beating wildly.

Margaery shook her head, her dark mop of curls looking dry and knotty. It was so strange, even now, after weeks of this, to see Margaery’s hair as anything but perfection, yet there it was, a tangled mess.“No… that’d be Alla.” Margaery looked to her cousin with a frown. “She only slept five minutes tonight… if that.”

Brienne looked for the young girl and was horrified by her pallor. The girl was typically so bright and lively and now she looked… deathly.

“We need help,” Daenerys decided.

“But we can’t speak,” Margaery reminded her, tousling her dark hair a bit. Margaery didn’t seem to remember that even she didn’t look beautiful now. Her looks didn’t matter in the light of day, only in the dark cover of night did they matter.

“Lord Varys already knows it’s magic,” Daenerys said, causing Margaery to stare.

“You’ve been in contact with the master of whispers?” the Tyrell princess smiled widely, the dimples in her cheeks puckering. “Oh Dany, I never knew you had it in you.”

“He contacted me,” Danaerys responded cooly. “Asking for my help to solve this problem.”

“In exchange for what exactly? Your virtue?” Margaery giggled.

Brienne spoke, half-annoyed by Margaery’s jape, “Do not be cruel, it’s not his fault that he’s a eunuch.”

Both girls ignored her, “I know what he wants to do, but it is none of your concern,” Daenerys stated, glowering at Margaery, “It’s my price to pay.”

Margaery smiled then, the sort of smile Brienne had spotted on Cersei many a time, and suddenly wished this discussion was not happening on her own bed. “But we should share the burden, shouldn’t we, sister?” Margaery asked.

“You’re no dragon, flower.” Daenerys’ nostrils flamed and for a moment it seemed as if the princess was going to breathe fire.

Margaery looked ready to retort with a spiteful jape but Brienne held her hand up, desperate to stop the bickering, “We are forgetting the point of the matter. We may all die soon enough… from _dancing_ of all things.”

Both the Tyrell and Targaeryen princess looked ashamed for a short moment, “Of course,” they said in agreement. 

“What does Lord Varys need from you?” Brienne asked after they shared their contrition.

“He needs for us to leave the door open. On a night where no man is supposed to protect us.”

“Is that what those men were for?” Margaery’s eyes glowed with amusement. “I thought they were our dance partners.”

Daenerys’ glare was stiff and potent. “If you are here to help, please stay, otherwise, leave.”

“I shall do as I please, we are equals here on Brienne’s bed. This is her kingdom not ours,” Margaery smiled primly.

“I do not know what you mean,” Brienne said, thinking of Jaime’s glances at their last meeting, and how he held her hand. Margery wouldn’t bring up such a cruel thing to Brienne’s face, would she? She would never wed him. 

“She’s japing that your bed is a kingdom, now may we get on?” Princess Daenerys demanded, a beautiful pale eyebrow raised in irritation. Brienne blushed, embarrassed that she thought of Jaime. She hoped neither of them realized what her thoughts truly were. Daenerys kept speaking, apparently oblivious to Brienne’s worries, “One of these girls will die soon if we don’t.”

Margaery stopped smiling then, “Please keep your voice down. They may all know it but no one wants to hear it. Especially not from you, Dany.”

Brienne looked around and noticed the other girls watching the three of them and knew that they had been heard.

“It’s no secret,” Asha Greyjoy replied from her bed, “We know we’re doomed.”

“The dancing is destroying us,” Val said, crawling on her own bed to reach them.

Sansa joined them again, “Arya says that my… brother is here.” 

“Your bastard brother?” Daenerys asked without preamble.

Sansa blushed but nodded. “He’s got a plan, supposedly. I don’t know what it is.”

Daenerys frowned, “I think it has to do with Lord Varys’ plan. I think they’re all working together… sort of.”

“So what are we supposed to do?” Asha demanded, raising her voice so she could be heard. “Wait like the little princesses we are? Fuck that.”

 “Shireen is in the room,” Brienne said, looking towards the littlest princess. “Mind your words.”

Asha shrugged off Brienne’s reprimand. “She knows the word. And we need to speak our minds. We can’t fight this off if we’re not speaking the truth. And the truth is that we need to do something while the idiot men work their plans. Because if they fail, we need to do something. Or if they take too long. I don’t want to die in a bed.”

“Neither do I,” Brienne agreed. “But what can we do when we’re incapacitated.”

Asha turned her gaze onto Princess Daenerys. “Tell us everything you know.”

“Excuse me?” Princess Daenerys looked offended. 

“I said tell us everything you know. If you don’t we could die. Even if you do we could still perish but at least then we’ll perish knowing something.”

“I don’t know much,” Princess Daenerys hedged. 

“More than the rest of us,” Margaery pointed out. 

Princess Daenerys’ violet eyes flashed and Brienne felt the need to speak before Daenerys killed Margaery. “Just, tell us something, please,” Brienne said, trying to look properly contrite. But she all she really wanted to do was shake Daenerys. 

_Just tell us something! Anything!_

“Fine. Apparently our kingdoms have chafed under the restrictions King Tywin placed them under after the Long War and have begun speaking to one another. Most of them, anyhow. Lord Varys wasn’t clear on who or what in his letters to me. And do not ask me how I got these letters from him, for not even I really understand. But this attack against us, the hostages, has riled up all the kingdoms and has lead them to unite for us.”

“Even your dead kingdom?” Margaery asked mercilessly. Brienne kicked her.

Rolling her eyes and rubbing her shin, Margaery nodded for Princess Daenerys to continue. Daenerys pretended as if she didn’t hear Margaery’s interruption, although her violet eyes burned like fire. “I suppose that all of our kingdoms have developed a plan to save us based on the little we all know. And that their plan requires us to leave our door unlocked… if not open. Lord Varys said nothing will come in, that it’s just to determine if fresh air would alleviate our suffering, or if this horrible… curse would spread to the other rooms.”

Brienne privately thought neither would happen but said nothing. Asha laughed outright, however, “And that will help us? We are truly going to die here.”

“Probably,” Princess Daenerys stated as if she were talking about the weather. “But…”

Arya interrupted, appearing almost out of nowhere on the floor beside Brienne's bed, her small face dark with anger… and despair. “Valar Morghulis.”

Princess Daenerys smiled sadly. “But we are not men.”

“If we were perhaps none of this would have happened,” Margaery pointed out. “We’re a threat to someone, as women. This dancing is of evil intent or else we would not be dying. Who wants to kill us?”

Sansa was pale. “Someone wants us to die? But why?”

“When we figure out that, perhaps we’ll untangle all of it.”

“I thought this was an attack on King Tywin, isn’t he also running out of gold and riches? Aren’t the other kingdoms uniting against him?” Val pointed out, her hands fluttering about. She was also looking weak and pale - Brienne hated to see it. “Should we not consider that angle?”

“There are easier ways,” Margaery said, her mouth curved in a sharp, awful smile, “to ruin a King. Not so many ways to kill twelve girls nearly all at once without attracting attention to yourself.”

“I suppose we should think on this. Who our enemy is, I mean,” Princess Daenerys wearily said. “And leave the door open while we do.”

“How are we to even reach the door at night? After the food comes in and before we fall asleep - won’t our feet ache even more, they always do right before bed,” Asha demanded, her fists on her hips. 

“We’ll know what to do, when the time comes. It’s all we can do.”

_Our fates_ , Brienne thought as the rest of the girls argued amongst themselves, _were in the hands of men._

And men had never seemed to succeed at anything. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the lateness, I actually had an entirely different chapter planned but it wasn't working out so well so I basically had to cut 2000 words. Fortunately, most of this chapter was already written so that worked out pretty well! I hope you're still enjoying the story and I actually can't guarantee the 1-3 week thing, but I can guarantee the next chapter will be out before September! (I have a lot of real life stuff going on the next few weeks and I have a few other stories on my plate so I'm trying to balance it all).  
> Anyways, hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thank you all for the kudos and comments!


	25. Jaime III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Gendry accidentally bond.

_** Jaime III ** _

* * *

 

Jaime waited outside his father’s door. Shifty and restless, his knees were knocking into one another - as if he were still a nervous child waiting for punishment. He paced back and forth from one side of the wall to the next. Gendry, the _boy_ , watched him with wary blue eyes.

Jaime wondered what was so special about this boy. Other than being a royal bastard, that was. Why could this bastard boy achieve something no one else could manage? 

And why was Varys, the spymaster, the whisperer, the cockless bastard, so interested in a bastard of Robert Baratheon?

“Are you ready, boy?” Jaime asked Gendry, “My Father doesn’t tolerate waiting.”

The boy looked him hard in the eye. “Then why is he making us wait?” 

_Touché._

The boy slouched further into himself, the way Jaime has seen the orphans he and Podrick came across doing when they saw Lannister crimson and golden armor. There was still so much distrust regarding the Lannisters even in the Westerlands. Jaime sighed, “He won’t harm you.”

Gendry’s scowl was impressive. “I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about _them_.”

“Why?” Jaime asked, truly curious. “Why are you so invested in these girls? You don’t know them.”

Gendry looked away and Jaime’s curiosity grew. “You do know —“

The door opened and the King appeared. Not a servant, just Jaime’s father, drawn and pale with dark circles under his eyes. Jaime never realized his father cared so much about the princesses but his appearance seemed to speak differently.

Or perhaps it was the gold or the threat of another war that was hanging over Tywin Lannister’s head.

“Oh, you,” his father said, looking almost surprised. If Tywin Lannister was ever surprised, that was.

“Did you forget we’re meeting you tonight?” Jaime asked. 

“No,” his father said shortly. “I was just calling a servant to bring you.” He was lying, Jaime realized, although he couldn’t figure out why his father would lie about something so insignificant. “Come in then, you too, boy.” 

Jaime walked into the dark halls that led to the solar, with his Father in front and Gendry behind. They were all quiet. 

But what could they even say to one another?

“So,” his father began, sitting in his wooden chair, his hands folded together, looking to Gendry with a careful and calculating eye. “You are the best that Westeros has to offer?”

Gendry flushed and glared and Jaime almost groaned. “I never said anything about that, m’lord.”

Jaime coughed, “It’s your Grace.”

Gendry was still red but it was obviously for a different reason now, the poor lad was embarrassed. “Your Grace,” he added.

“Hmph,” was all Tywin Lannister said, his eyes darting all over Gendry.

Jaime answered the unspoken question, “Yes, he is Robert’s bastard son.” Gendry’s mouth curled in distaste at Jaime’s response but he said nothing, hopefully knowing better than to argue in front of a King. 

“Tyrion said as much.” 

Jaime tried to ignore how unsatisfied his father sounded with the plan, and with Tyrion. “I’m to guide the boy into the princesses’ chambers, now that the princesses have had their meal and are probably asleep. He’s going to guard them inside and watch over them.”

“Just like the others,” the King commented before settling into silence. Jaime’s father seemed so tired, so weak then, that Jaime was almost concerned. Was this how a lion looked before he fell?

“Do you have any questions, Father?” Jaime asked, feeling as though there had to be a reason why his father wanted to see Gendry before he was sent off on his quest. 

A quest that was likely to cause the boy to disappear like all the others.

The silence felt heavy with unspoken thoughts but it was broken with a quiet, “No, you may leave,” from the King. 

And so Jaime and Gendry left King Tywin to his burdensome thoughts, even though Jaime kept looking back to his Father, stricken by the thought that something else was very wrong.

But he moved forward into the night, guiding the boy Gendry to the princesses’ tower, both of their heads presumably full since neither of them spoke. Jaime’s head in particular couldn’t help but think of his family. His father looked worse than he had ever remembered, Tyrion was worried that war was going to break out again, and Cersei…

Well, if Podrick spoken truly the other night, Cersei was even madder than previously believed. How could she — why would she?

It couldn’t be her, Jaime decided quickly, not eager to believe the worst in the woman he had loved for so long, no matter how terrible she could be she wouldn’t wreck the princesses if she thought it would harm their family. And this curse harmed their family almost more than the Princesses.

Podrick’s musings had to be wrong.

He was just a boy.

Although, Jaime looked back to Gendry, so was this _hero._

_This is it,_ Jaime thought when they arrived outside the princesses’ chambers. “Are you ready, boy?”

Gendry nodded, his eyes firm. He looked as if he truly believed that he was the only one that could solve this.

Jaime remembered believing that sort of thing. He remembered being a boy thinking he could save the world. Instead he just burned it.

But looking at Gendry’s blue eyes, he was reminded of another’s. 

The poor wench was dependent on this child to save her. She truly wouldn’t like this at all, if she knew. 

Jaime sighed, “They’re all asleep most likely right now, just stand by and watch them —“

“I know what to do,” Gendry interrupted, his face red. “Just trust me, Ser.”

“I believe you mean, yes, your Grace,” Jaime said wryly. “I am a Prince.”

Gendry bowed his head, “Yes, your Grace.” 

The boy was a strange mix of stubborn, deferent, and stupid, Jaime decided and longed to push the boy aside and go into the room instead. How could this child save Brienne? Brienne would have better luck saving herself than this boy… and knowing Brienne she had already tried and failed to do so.

“Do you know what any of the princesses look like?” Jaime asked, suddenly curious.

Gendry looked back up with a strange expression but did not answer. Jaime had to prod again, “Well, do you, boy?”

“I’ve seen a few of them, in the window,” Gendry said.

“Even spoken to one, I wager,” Jaime said, “At least I’ve heard as much.”

Gendry flushed, “I - I, yes, m’lord.”

Jaime didn’t bother correcting Gendry. It didn’t matter and Jaime rather be called Jaime anyhow. “Well, know this, all the girls in that room are strong in their own manner, and something that can take down them is indeed powerful. Watch for them and protect their lives even if it means yours is forfeited.”

Gendry blinked, as if he wasn’t expecting this speech, “M’lord?”

“Save them, Gendry,” Jaime ordered, while handing over the key to the room. “Save them or I’ll cut your balls off myself.”

Gendry’s hands curled around the key. “Why do you care?” he asked suddenly. “Why would someone like you care for your Father’s prisoners?”

Jaime stopped and looked at the boy. Perhaps he misjudged Gendry, perhaps the bastard was more perceptive than Jaime had previously believed, if he could see something that few else could.

“I don’t know them all very well,” Jaime hedged. “But —“

“But you love one of them,” Gendry answered for Jaime.

Jaime stared at the boy, astounded by his words. But  Gendry wasn’t looking at Jaime anymore, but instead looking towards the door. “I’ll go save them," he promised, looking quite serious and older than his age.

Jaime didn’t know what to say in response and instead just watched the boy. Gendry entered the door and closed it swiftly behind him without another word spoken by either of them. Even as Jaime heard the door lock, he did not feel like he was able to move his feet from the hall. He could do nothing but stare at the hard, wooden door and wish that he was the one inside, saving them.

Saving Brienne.

Since Jaime could not be there, since he could not be a hero, since he could not be Brienne's lover or husband, Jaime sat down where he formerly stood.

And waited for morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, esp. since it's a short chapter! The next chapter should be longer as it focuses on Gendry's first night in dealing w/the curse and of course, with Arya too. ;)
> 
> Thank you all for your reviews and kudos!


	26. Sansa II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's fears start to overwhelm her dreams.

**_ Sansa II _ **

* * *

 

Sansa did not know if she was sleeping, dreaming, or awake. 

But she was dancing.

One step there, another around the bend, twisting around a white marble column as if it was just a twiggy tree. A hand on her waist, one she could not even clearly see, murmurings in her ear.

And a strange feeling that someone outside of it all was watching her.

As if the scene was taking place in a looking glass. 

Sansa froze, almost tripping over her partner, who then tried to carry her away, but she pushed him aside, frightened. Dodging the other princesses, she found her sister, dressed in furs and grey lace, all of it weaved together in asymmetry until the silvery lace twisted around Arya’s neck like a piece of gorget armor. 

“Arya,” Sansa said, glad to see her sister with clear, sharp eyes. Sansa felt as if even her own eyes were fairly vacant now as it was becoming harder and harder to think at night. Sweet Alla looked completely dead to the world, spinning and twirling as if that was all Alla had been doing her entire life. 

And in a way, she had. Their true lives had begun with this dancing, it felt as if their lives before this had never existed at all.

Sansa wasn’t even sure she could remember real sleep anymore, she was so fatigued that real sleep seemed like a pleasant dream. Unlike the nightmare she was currently steeped in.

Arya looked to Sansa, her grey eyes piercing Sansa’s thoughts. Sansa thought Arya looked like a direwolf, although Sansa could barely remember what a true direwolf looked like despite it being her sigil as a Stark. Once, Robb, her sweet brother Robb, had shown her a direwolf cub, before the Long War, and Sansa had reached out to pet it. Her brother stopped her and told her, gently, that wolves were wild creatures, rarely ever pets, direwolves even more so.

But the baby direwolf came up to her, kissed her hand, and ran off to find its mother. Robb had laughed and said that the cub must’ve recognized a Stark. Sansa had been so pleased that day, her cheeks as red as her hair from happiness. Robb had been her favorite, as much as Jon’s had been Arya’s. 

But Robb was gone. And Jon was... _here?_

“Sansa?” Arya said, “What is it?”

Sansa shook off her melancholy thoughts and smiled, trying to remember the reason she came over. Her brain felt so muddled, as if she was tripping and falling into puddles, that she almost forgot. 

Fortunately, the feeling of being watched came back fiercely, as she spoke to Arya, as if the watcher was looking right at them. 

“Someone is here that shouldn’t be,” Sansa said, the pricking pain of being watched almost hurting her all over her limbs. She had never felt so afraid, not since the early days of her captivity with the Lannisters. “Something is wrong.”

Arya frowned. “I haven’t noticed anything. It’s been a little quieter than usual.”

A knight with red hair came over to greet Arya and beg her hand for a dance, but Arya shook him off with a growl. He then came to Sansa and she hesitated. It hurt to resist dancing sometimes, but she forced herself through the pain and declined his hand. 

Arya watched her. “I wish it didn’t hurt you.” For some strange reason, Arya was nearly immune to the worst of the effects of the dance. Arya shrugged it off as sheer willpower, but Sansa believed it had to be more as they all had strong wills and strong hearts, and yet nearly all of them were dancing. 

“It doesn’t matter now.” Nothing mattered anymore. “There’s something else going on here, tonight.”

“There was no gentleman watching us,” Arya said, leaning against a window. Outside, Sansa could see the glass trees waving in the wind, the stars sparkling like Tarth sapphires and Lannister gold. 

Not that Tarth actually had sapphires, Sansa recalled, but it is what Prince Jaime said to Brienne once, remarking that Tarth must be rich in sapphires due to being called the "Sapphire Island" or was it only her eyes that it had been referring to? Brienne had been infuriated by the comment, probably sensing a jape, but there had to be none for Prince Jaime’s own emeralds looked so very serious when he said it to her, although his lips were quirked in a shameless grin. Sansa had not meant to overhear the conversation, from over a year before, before all of _this,_ but could not stop herself from listening. It almost looked romantic. 

Sansa sighed. “No gentleman that we know of, Arya,” she corrected. “We do go to sleep fairly early. It would be remarkably easy to slip in.”

“Why wouldn’t they tell us?”

Sansa shrugged, feeling quite unladylike as she did so. “I don’t know. You’d have to demand answers from the Imp, I mean,” she blushed at her mistake although she knew Arya would not care. “Prince Tyrion.”  Prince Tyrion seemed to know all that mattered in the world at times. He had read so many books and tomes that it was almost frightening. Perhaps he was the one to trap them in this world, but Sansa somehow doubted it. The Imp had always been kind to her and the rest of the princesses, possibly just to spite his sister. 

Sansa did not like him just as she did not particularly care for Prince Jaime, but they were far better than their sister and father. 

That meant very little, however, really. 

The only Lannister man Sansa semi-trusted was Prince Jaime’s squire, Podrick Payne, and that was because he had always been kind to Sansa and the rest of the Princesses. And he was only about her age, he had nothing to do with the Long War, it would not be fair to judge him as though he had. He was just a boy without a family. 

Almost like Sansa herself, if she didn’t have Arya with her. The rest of her family was so far away that Sansa sometimes felt as if they were gone. 

But maybe… with Jon here now...

Arya rolled her eyes interrupting Sansa's wishes. “As if they’ll tell us anything. We need to work our own plan.”

“What plan?” Sansa demanded in a whisper, feeling as though the dream and its weaver could hear them. “We have come up with nearly nothing. We have tried fighting back, we have tried breaking the trees, we have tried just dancing, nothing works Arya. And soon Alla will die.”

Arya’s beautiful eyes turned bleary and Sansa realized her sister was trying not to cry. “I know!” she whispered. “Of course I know! But we can’t just do nothing!”

Something or someone whisked by Sansa and she twirled around to catch it but was too late. “See, did you feel that!”

Arya stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

Sansa clutched her face in dismay. Arya hadn’t noticed. “Oh, never mind.”

“No, what did you see?” Arya asked, touching Sansa’s shoulder with her bare hand. Sansa’s shoulder was covered with lace, but she could feel the warmth of her sister despite this. 

“I thought I felt someone go by us,” Sansa said miserably, “but I saw nothing.”

“Perhaps you’re dreaming of someone to save us,” Arya said, her expression folded into a harsh frown. Sansa stepped back from her sister.

“That was rude.”

“But isn’t it the truth? You think we’re going to die here without Jon’s help.”

“Don’t you?” Sansa shot back.

Arya looked away and Sansa’s stomach plummeted. “I’m sorry, Arya… I won’t let you die like this.”

Arya nodded but never looked back at Sansa, instead she grabbed the nearest knight and began to dance. Sansa sank to the floor, terrified that she was going to fail her sister. 

Sansa could not dance anymore, not even with the most handsomest of knights when he asked. Even as the rest of the princesses revolved around her sitting form like spinning wheels, Sansa could not dance.

She could only weep.

If the dream would let her, that was. 

Instead her eyes were as dry as the red mountains that highlighted the Dornish skyline. Sansa looked to the sky then and examined the stars more closely.

There were no constellations that she recognized and she knew the stars fairly well because of the tales they held within them. These were an entirely different sky and Sansa wondered how that could be. 

“Sansa?” Princess Arianne came up to her. “You are not dancing.”

Arianne looked more beautiful than before, her dark skin illuminated in a ruby dress that matched her Martell colors. Her smile was a wily as a snake’s and it made Sansa recall what they said of Arianne’s bastard cousins - the Sand Snakes.

If only they were here, Sansa woefully thought. 

“I cannot dance any longer,” Sansa said, trying to resist the swell of music. Her feet tapped against the ground and Arianne laughed.

“Sansa, we may die here, but you should at least die happy.”

“I don’t want to die,” Sansa whispered, not truly realizing it until now. “I want to live.”  _I want to fly away like a bird from her cage. I want to sing and dream and be at home. I want Winterfell and Robb and Father. I want this nightmare to be over, forever._

Arianne could not hear her thoughts nor her whispers. “Dance,” she ordered with a tight smile, pulling aside a hedge knight. “Dance and be merry for tomorrow we shall die.”

“No, we can’t,” Sansa argued, afraid, but Arianne was already gone from her sight, joining a man from the shadows as the unseen musician began a new tune.  And soon Sansa could not think anymore. She could not feel her misery nor her fear.

She could only dance. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The spell is becoming more powerful and more fractured all at once, affecting the princesses in different ways, as you can probably tell. I can only imagine the existential nausea this would induce. 
> 
> Anyways, hope you enjoyed the chapter! If you can't tell Gendry is lurking and observing the spell and the princesses, trying to learn enough without getting caught.


	27. Jon III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon learns about his sisters.

**_ Jon III _ **

* * *

 

Casterly Rock was intimidating from his spot in the woods, looking larger than even Winterfell — possibly as tall or taller than the Wall. It was truly a mountain hiding a castle within its depths and Jon wondered who created the castle. Was it Lann the Clever? Or perhaps Brandon the Builder came to the Westerlands to build it up just as he helped the Storm King. 

He was sure his own King Brandon would know — Bran loved the stories and histories that Maester Luwin presented during lessons. 

But Jon was only a bastard and knew this well enough. It was Robb who needed the lessons not Jon. Jon only wanted to know how to fight, in order to protect his family, in order to protect himself, but both his father and Maester Luwin insisted he sit in with the lessons, much to Lady Catelyn’s chagrin.

Jon found use out of those lessons but some of the tales weren’t interesting to him. 

And now he regretted it.

“Jon.” Ygritte shook his shoulder. Her hand felt warm on his bare skin.

They had bedded in the woods together — Ygritte laughing until he took her, amused at his virginity. 

They were to watch for any goings on but he couldn’t help it — she was beautiful in the firelight. 

And he tried to be quick, but then he had her again. 

And again.

“Jon,” Ygritte repeated, “get dressed, your boy is coming.”

“How do you know?” he asked, still staring at Casterly Rock. She mussed his hair and pulled it hard enough for his eyes to water.

“I can see him that’s how.”

Jon got up from his position on the ground, where he had been sitting on a comfortable rock of his own, and threw on pants and a shirt. Ygritte was already dressed in her furs, her eyes flashing at him in open adulation for his figure.

Jon smiled at her and she just shook her head. “Hurry up,” Ygritte said. “It’s not the boy.”

“What?” Jon asked, turning to look where she was.

It wasn’t Gendry. It was a sellsword, a fat one, but he looked at them as if he knew them. 

Jon certainly did not know this man. 

“Lord Jon,” the man greeted when he reached their part of the woods, his eyes looking them over carefully. Jon knew that this man had figured out that he and Ygritte had been together. He gripped his sword.

“How do you know me?” Jon asked. “And I’m no Lord.”

“Of course not,” the man soothed as if he wasn’t wearing an armory on his back. “But I know you by description. Lord Tyrion sent me. He wishes for you two to meet him at Casterly Rock.”

_At Casterly Rock?_ “Why?” Jon demanded, his grip on the pommel of his sword tightening. He could almost feel the imprints on his hand.

Ygritte glared at the sellsword. “Who are you?” 

He smiled pecularily. “Lord Varys. And you must be one of the wildlings — I assure you, Val will be returned to you.”

That assurance prickled something in Jon’s mind. “Lord Varys?” he asked, feeling stupid. “But you don’t look like the description Tyrion’s given us of you.”

“Nor should I — I’m the Master of Whisperers, am I not?” the man actually winked. “I have some experience in disguises, Lord Jon.”

“Why should we go with you then? What does Lord Tyrion want?”

“You and your southron lords,” Ygritte grumbled, grabbing the hilt of her dagger.

Lord Varys ignored this. “Gendry has come back with a full report and wanted to share it with everyone at once. And he believes it would be good if everyone was at the castle the rest of his stay… in case something goes wrong.”

“Wrong?” Jon growled. “What did the boy see?”

Lord Varys tittered. “I’m afraid you’d have to ask _him._ ”

Jon didn’t think this was a trap despite it having all the markings of one. Still he looked to Ygritte to see what she thought. Her eyes met his and he saw the same thoughts in her head. 

Neither of them liked this.

“Take us there,” Jon ordered, “but let us clean the camp first.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“I’m not a lord,” Jon said again, but bent over to start clearing out the camp, ridding of it of the branches and leaves that had been their bedding for the night. Ygritte did not help, too busy staring down Lord Varys with a glower that rivaled a direwolf’s. 

The path to Casterly Rock took more time than Jon suspected — Jon had planted their camp right by the quickest route to the castle, but it was quickly revealed by Lord Varys that they were not allowed to enter the way by the road but by the way of sea. The mountain looked like a lion as they approached it in their rowboat. And as they entered the mouth, Jon wondered if he was mad for entering the belly of the beast.

But then he thought of his sisters. 

And rowed harder.

Lord Varys helped, but not very much, too focused on directing them through the correct path through the windy water. Ygritte did not like this, glaring at the man with furious eyes, but kept going, her arms pumping harder than even Jon’s. Her face was shining with sweat — Jon imagined she wasn’t used to this heat — and she looked like she needed to shed her furs, but she didn’t. She kept at it, only slowing when Lord Varys told them to. 

The climb up into Casterly Rock was treacherous and wet. Jon’s boots slid across the slimey stone floors and Ygritte almost fell into the water until Jon grabbed her by the waist. She was so much smaller than it felt like she should be — Ygritte was larger than life in Jon’s mind and yet so tiny in actuality. 

Somehow sensing this, she whispered, “You know nothing,” and tore herself away, smiling a little. 

Lord Varys noticed none of this, as he led them in the front, his steps small and swift, so light-footed that Jon could not hear a sound. Or at least Jon hoped Lord Varys did not see or hear it. Somehow even that small moment felt too precious for a spy to hear. Especially one that worked for Tywin Lannister.

The mud path grew into cold, grey stone, the color Jon imagined matched Tywin Lannister’s cold eyes, despite knowing very well that they were green. It was a different sort of stone than Winterfell — Jon wasn’t sure where it was from and didn’t care to ask Varys.

“Is this the mountain?” Ygritte demanded, pressing her hand upon the wall. Lord Varys looked behind and smiled. 

“Oh yes. Chiseled into a path. Much of the Rock is like this. We’re quite different than your Winterfell.”

Ygritte scowled. “It’s not my Winterfell. Do all of you know nothing?”

Lord Varys only smiled again and turned away.

It wasn’t long before they reached the door that held everyone else. Jon could see light filtered at the bottom of it and went to touch the handle but Lord Varys stopped him.

“Allow me,” he said, his voice unnaturally high, pushing open the door with great amusement.

The glow of candlelight was not kind on the Imp’s features, highlighting all that was ugly about his face. It was kinder on the elder Lannister brother who looked so beautiful that Jon heard Ygritte gasp behind him. 

He had to fight a smile. 

Oberyn and Ellaria were in there also, Oberyn spinning a knife between his hands, while Ellaria sat in his lap, watching the knife dance. 

Lord Varys was the first to speak, “I have brought Lord Snow and his… _companion_.” The spymaster's words were heavy with innuendo. 

Jon rolled his eyes but moved forward. “Where’s the boy?” he demanded.

“He’s on his way,” Tyrion said. “I told him to sleep a bit since he had been awake all night. He’s also been fed… if you care.”

Ygritte shook her head, causing her hair to fly everywhere. “He should be here now. We’re ready to hear the news.”

The Imp tutted at her but before he could say his quip, the boy opened the door right behind Ygritte, almost hitting her in the head as he did so.

“Sorry,” he said, in his gruff, surprised voice. 

The Imp’s quip turned to him then. “So, you’ve finally decided to grace us with your presence, Ser Gendry?”

The boy’s face was red until it soured into a green. “I’m no ser,” he said, almost glumly. “But I saw many sers last night.”

That caught the attention of the Lannisters. “How?” Lord Jaime demanded, “What did you see?”

Gendry grunted. “A whole other world, nearly impossible to describe. I followed the girls under a trap door in their room — you can’t see it until they open it, and when I checked again this morning, there was nothing there. But when they awaken in the night, they open it up and it leads to a forest underneath their room.”

Ygritte's hand found her way to Jon's shoulder after the bastard boy's little speech. Jon almost expected her to tell Gendry that he knew nothing, but she kept quiet.

Varys frowned. “How is that possible?”

Gendry shrugged, but Ygritte spoke, her free hand pulling through her tangled hair. “Sounds like a terrible magic.”

Gendry only shrugged again, “I don’t know anything about that —“

“How were you able to follow them without them knowing?” Lord Tyrion interrupted. Jon resisted scowling although apparently not very well because Varys glanced at him with a strange smile.

“I… I’m very good at tracking and being silent.” Gendry was lying when he spoke. Jon was sure of it. 

They all were sure of it. 

But the Imp stopped asking questions and waved his hand for Gendry to continue. So _kingly_ the Imp seemed then that Jon had to remind himself that Lord Jaime was the Lannister King’s heir — not the Imp.

“The forest wasn’t made up of trees — not real trees. It was made up of glass — “

“What?” Jon demanded. 

“Be quiet, Snow,” Lord Jaime said, staring intently at Gendry. His green eyes looked almost like glass. It was disquieting.

Gendry took this acknowledgement as a signal to start up again. “We went through the forest and sometimes the girls would step on a piece of glass, and some of them would wince while others seemed as if they had felt no pain.”

“Did you step on a piece?” Varys demanded.

Gendry shook his head. “No, but…” he stopped and reached into his pocket. 

It was a glass leaf.

Jon snatched it from Gendry’s hand and carefully examined it, feeling the ripples under his fingers. He had never seen nor felt anything like it — it was so fragile yet Jon suspected it would only break if he stomped on it.

“Did any of them see you take this?” Jon asked, handing it over to Lord Varys who barely glanced at it. The spy probably already knew about it, he was much detached about the glass leaf. 

“No, I did it while they were dancing.”

“Dancing?” Ellaria’s lip quirked. “Is this all to meet men?”

Lord Jaime’s neck cracked as he turned to glare at the bastard woman but Gendry hurried to speak, “No, they didn’t look happy dancing. None of them did, not the men, I think they must be the knights that you sent — not the princesses. Only a few of the princesses were smiling but they looked like tired smiles. Not like real ones.” Gendry turned to Jon then, “Princess Arya was all right.”

“How do you know Arya?” 

Gendry almost grinned. Jon misliked it. “She kind of made herself known to me. Not in the forest!” he added hurriedly upon seeing the worried faces of the group around them. “I hid from them all, although your other sister almost saw me. Arya met me before.”

“Mayhaps you should continue your tale, Gendry,” Oberyn said as Jon's glare hardened.

Gendry’s face had a strange, embarrassed look on it. “Um, right.” He coughed. “It looked to me, that the princesses were almost forced to dance. None of them were happy, and a few looked so happy that it wasn’t normal.”

“So the dancing is part of the curse,” Lord Tyrion mused, his mismatched eyes staring intently at Varys. It seemed as if they were communicating silently — Jon misliked that. But he misliked all of it. Ygritte’s hand on his shoulder was the only thing keeping him quiet, the only thing stopping him from marching in and stealing his sisters away from this cursed keep. 

“I believe so, milord.” Gendry said, his dark head bowed. 

“And then what happened?” Jon asked impatiently, not wanting to delay any longer. Why should they all delay — it seemed even more serious than previously thought. “Did they dance all night? Was someone else there pulling their strings?”

“If you shut up, perhaps we’ll find out,” the Lannister heir said, his voice a low purr. His green eyes did not look glassy any longer. They looked alive. “Or do you just adore hearing your own voice that much?”

“I believe that’s your family trait, not mine,” Jon shot back, irritated at himself for feeding into the Lannister ego. “And yes, _please continue_ , Gendry.”

Gendry’s eyes were dashing between the two men and only Oberyn’s grin made him speak again. “They danced all night, around and around, until suddenly the music ended and thunder began.”

“You didn’t mention music before,” Lord Tyrion said, in a way that seemed too practiced. He was much too casual about this.

Gendry blushed. “I didn’t mean to not tell, milord, I forgot. But it ended and then the men were clinging to the princesses skirts begging them not to go… one of the girls was almost carried off until Princess Arya kicked one of the men in the face.” Jon smiled at that. It sounded like Arya, even as a small child she was fierce. 

“But once that was… dealt with, they all went back to the forest…” Gendry hesitated. Jon had a feeling that Gendry was leaving something out but couldn’t determine what.

“And then within the forest, horrible screams happened but the girls ignored it, or didn’t hear it and just kept going until they reached a meadow. And above the meadow there was no sky any longer, there was just a trapdoor. And so they all climbed back up, and I followed them. They went to sleep as soon as they reached their room and I… I watched over them. None of them slept well… or long.”

The Lannisters looked at each other with more worry than Jon thought either of them capable of — could they actually care about the girls? Their hostages?

Lord Varys spoke, “I believe we should let the boy rest some more. He has to go back there tonight after all.”

Gendry did look exhausted if the dark circles under his eyes were any sort of indication. “No, I’m fine,” he said. 

“Just go to bed, boy. We have political things to discuss,” Jon said, hating himself for saying such a stupid thing. Ygritte looked annoyed at him too, but she said nothing, she just released her hand from his shoulder. 

“I have one question before he leaves,” Lord Tyrion said. “Do you have any idea of how they could be under this enchantment?”

“No, milord.”

“Then off you go,” the Imp said, “you’re currently useless to us. Go sleep and make yourself of more use tonight. My brother’s squire, Podrick, should be waiting out in the hall for you, to take you back to your room.” 

Gendry glared but stiffly nodded. _He was so young — just a boy._

How was this boy going to save his sisters? 

And, as Ygritte’s hand found his shoulder again, another worry appeared. 

Really... _how did this bastard boy know Arya?_


	28. Gendry V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry watches and waits.

Gendry shuddered as the darkness enveloped him. There was nothing he could see or hear or feel once he entered the trapdoor. 

Until the lights reflecting off the glass trees hit him in the eyes. Then the murmuring and laughter of the princesses below him flowed into his ears. 

Arya’s voice was the loudest, her pronouncements of how she’d rather be sleeping causing the other princesses to titter. Gendry peeked at her, grateful that he could see through his cloak. 

She was beautiful. 

They all were.

Frighteningly so. They didn’t look human any longer. More like whispers of their former selves. 

But Gendry trudged on, following the princesses carefully, trying not to be loud, trying to be as silent as the horrifying night sky above them.

How was there a sky?

He tried not to think of it or anything else that was strange, especially now that he was lagging behind the princesses. They were about to leave him on this strange little island, taking their rowboats to the ballroom. Gendry quickly hopped into the back of the littlest princess’ rowboat. 

She almost lurched at the sudden intrusion of weight, the side of her face that was unmarred by greyscale looking quite shocked, but she said nothing to her companion in the boat who seemed not to notice Gendry’s disturbance, her pretty face looking almost dumb and dull.

She must have been the sick one, Gendry realized as he observed them both. The little one with greyscale chattered happily about this and that, in a fruitless attempt to draw the other one out. 

Gendry couldn’t stand it. 

How was he supposed to save them? 

Especially when it seemed like the fate of the world was depending on his shoulders. It didn’t make sense for just a stupid bastard boy to be the one that had to save them. Perhaps it should have been one of the nobles or even that noble bastard, Jon Snow. 

For Gendry wasn’t a bastard of a King. No matter what they all said. And even if he was, what did it matter. The man was dead.

Just like his mother.

Just like these girls would be if he didn’t save them soon.

Three nights, he had three nights. And this was the second. 

He should have a plan by now, but he could think of nothing. If he revealed himself the spell would probably wrap around him too and he’d be like one of those knights and sellswords trapped down here, swirling and twirling like an idiot. 

“Doesn’t the rowboat seem to be taking longer than normal?” the girl with greyscale asked the other. 

Gendry stilled.

“Mhm.”

“Typically, we’re there by now. But…”

“We’re not.”

The girl with greyscale nodded excitedly. “Yes, exactly! I wonder if it’s weakening. The spell I mean… it makes sense doesn’t it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because then I’d feel better not worse, Shireen.”

Shireen… Shireen Baratheon?

If the Imp was correct this girl with greyscale was his cousin.

But that was nonsense.

Still Gendry looked at her more closely, trying to ignore the effects of the spell on her little face. 

She looked directly into his eyes and he almost fell into the black water in surprise. But she did not see him.

But he saw his eyes in her face. 

_Baratheon eyes._

_His eyes._

“Oh look, we’re finally here!” his cousin said, smiling brightly. It was obviously a false attempt to encourage the other princess to be cheery but it didn’t work. 

The other princess did not smile. 

Nor did Gendry as he waited for them to leave the boat. Once he saw their figures slip inside the ballroom, then he lurched himself out of the boat. 

The dancing was the same as before. Oddly logical and sweeping, every move seemed like a military formation, even the most beautiful ones. It did not seem like the kind of dancing he’d observed at inns or even at the sort back in Old King’s Landing when he was just a child watching the crowds. There was no spilling of alcohol, no grabbing of a woman’s teats (this he was grateful of), no laughter, just…

Just something odd.

There was no happiness in this dance. 

He watched them for hours, hoping to spy something of significance but nothing happened. There weren’t even conversations like the one before between Arya and her sister. 

Had they given up?

Gendry wasn’t sure if he could blame them if they had. Months of this horror had been thrust upon them, every single night. The fact that they were able to be so kind to each other was a miracle — something the septas would say of the Maiden, not of girls. 

Not even of princesses.

He watched Arya in particular. It was as if he was dreaming — watching her. She looked like a warrior princess even while dripping in jewels that he wouldn’t try to name. He wished he could reveal himself and dance with her, just for a moment. 

But that would have been stupid.

Still Gendry went to her, watching her spin around, until suddenly she whacked right into him. He backed away quickly, terrified that he had just ruined everything.

“What was that?” she snapped at the air, reaching for something at her waist, a sword perhaps? But there was nothing there. “Who are you?” she demanded.

_It’s me_ , Gendry wanted to say. _I’ve come to rescue you and all the others_. But he said nothing. He just watched as she turned around angrily, finally looking the way she should, like a human being rather than a terrible goddess.

She wasn’t as beautiful now, he supposed, but he preferred her like this, wild-eyed and snapping like a turtle. 

“Arya, what are you doing?” one of the more beautiful princesses asked, her brown eyes warm and sultry all at once. 

“There was something there!” 

“You silly creature,” the older princess said, throwing her head back in a laugh, “There’s nothing there.”

“There is! I felt it!” Arya argued, her face twisted and annoyed. 

Gendry left the two of them to their bickering, anxious that Arya would discover him, somehow. But would that be such a bad thing? Perhaps it was the way to break the curse?

The clanging thunder roared in his ears and he almost cried from the pain. The princesses did not seem to notice its painful roar, instead, they fought to get away from the men who were now chasing them to the boats.

They were not this bad even the night before, Gendry noted with alarm. Princess Sansa leapt away from one of her pursuers into her boat but the man almost reached her… until Gendry stuck out his foot. 

Then the man rolled into the black waters while Sansa’s boat took her away. 

Gendry hopped back into his possible cousin’s boat and once again Princess Shireen proclaimed, “Why is it so much heavier than before?” but she did not seem to realize the reason. 

When they stepped out into the grass, the girls’ bare feet all stepping lightly as they did so, Gendry watched out for glass branches, picking up the ones he could before any of the princesses stepped on them. 

Until he stepped on one himself.

“What was that?” one of the princesses called out. 

“Is someone hurt?” asked another.

“No, we’re fine back here,” Princess Shireen said, closer to Gendry. She peered around the forest, and Gendry was grateful for both the darkness and his cloak. He held onto the glass branches in his hand with a tight grip, tight enough to make him bleed. 

If the gods were good, no one would notice the trail of blood on the black grass. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that it was so short and that it took so long to be published! I have a lot of the rest of the story written already so once we get a little bit further it'll be a quicker update pattern.... well, probably.


	29. Podrick III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Podrick spies once again.

**_ Podrick III _ **

* * *

 

Podrick could hear Littlefinger rustling through papers before he even entered the man’s offices. He swallowed his fear and pushed open the door, hoping that he wouldn’t have to be here long, that Lord Tyrion’s plan (or was it _plans_?) would happen quickly tonight. That everything would be solved.

“You again?” Lord Baelish asked when Podrick walked in. Podrick didn’t reply, too afraid to say anything.

After guiding Gendry back to his rooms earlier that morning, after the other boy’s meeting, Podrick had known his next task to be much harder than guiding a boy to his bedroom without being seen. Even if Gendry did seem a sullen sort, he was still better than Lord Baelish.

But Prince Jaime was sure that Lord Baelish had something to do with the spell. While Podrick privately disagreed, he did think that Littlefinger was up to something. And the barely hidden look of disgruntlement on Lord Baelish’s face at Podrick’s appearance seemed to prove that there was something wrong.

“Well, boy?” Littlefinger demanded. “Why are you here?”

“I was told to help you while you arrange the letter to the Iron Bank,” Podrick lied. He wasn’t told to say or do anything, other than to find out information about Lord Baelish. Or, if that wasn’t possible, to distract him.

Lord Baelish peered at him for a moment then grunted, something Podrick had never heard the Hand do before. “That’s a treat, being served by the heir’s own squire… again.”

Podrick said nothing, feeling it was better to do that than to stutter an explanation. 

“Since you’re so helpful, why don’t you clean my horse’s saddle?”

“You-your saddle?” Podrick cocked his head. The Hand never traveled outside of the city and rarely rode his horse at all. Why would he need his horse’s saddle cleaned?

“Did I stutter?” Littlefinger asked, a smile on his face. 

Podrick blushed. “No-no, my lord.”

The Hand opened his mouth to respond when Podrick felt the door open behind him and turned to find Princess Cersei staring them both down, a smile crueler than Littlefinger’s on her terrifying face.

“Get out,” she ordered Podrick within a moment. “This conversation is not for your ears.”

“Your Grace,” Podrick muttered, distraught, turning to leave and pass her by, but Lord Baelish called back.

“No, boy, stay here,” Littlefinger said, and Podrick turned to face the two nobles again. Littlefinger’s eyes did not leave the Princess’ face. Podrick swallowed his fear. Technically, the Hand overruled even the Princess… but that didn’t mean that Podrick wasn’t afraid of what the Princess would do in retaliation.

Princess Cersei’s face twisted in rage. “How dare you —“

“I dare because I am the Hand,” Littlefinger said, a small, terrible smile on his face. “Now what is it that I may help you with, _Princess_?”

The beautiful Princess jaw snapped shut and Podrick could almost hear her teeth grinding in anger. But then she spoke. “I wanted to go over the plan.”

Littlefinger’s eyes twitched for less than a second. It happened so quickly that Podrick wondered if he had imagined it. “Which plan, your Grace?”

Princess Cersei glanced at Podrick, who tried to make himself as small and stupid-looking as possible. She seemed satisfied with his acting. The tension left her shoulders and she even smiled, although it was a cruel one. “Why there’s only one plan, Lord Baelish. Only one that you agreed to.”

“Perhaps I have changed my mind.”

“I would be delighted to hear that,” Princess Cersei said while Littlefinger turned away and rummaged in his desk. 

“Here is what you need for your original plan,” he said. Podrick tried to look at what it was, but could only see a box, painted with dragons. It meant nothing to him.

Princess Cersei smiled, a true one this time. The kind she usually aimed at Prince Jaime. “This will do nicely, Lord Baelish. What do you want as recompense?”

His smile was small. “I have not yet decided, your Grace. But I can assure you, I will not ask too much of you.”

Princess Cersei’s smile faltered. “I see.”

“Now, if you excuse me, I must deal with Prince Jaime’s squire.”

The Princess looked over at Podrick again, almost glaring. Podrick stood still and hoped he still looked to stupid for any true notice. 

She nodded and Podrick almost sighed in relief. “I shall not keep you any longer.”

Once she left, Littlfinger looked at Podrick with a strange expression. “In addition to cleaning my saddle, I would like you to give a note to Princess Sansa. It’s from her mother,” he added when Podrick wrinkled his nose in confusion. “Go there first,” he said, handing Podrick a sealed note. But it wasn’t sealed with the imprint of a direwolf, but an imprint of a mockingbird. _I’m too good at mumming stupidity._

Podrick shook off the thought and found the courage to question Lord Baelish. “What about Princess Arya?”

Littlefinger smiled mildly. “I’m afraid that Princess Arya was not the recipient of that letter.”

Podrick misliked that. He misliked the whole letter business in its entirety but decided to obey the Hand at this time, hoping that Princess Sansa would reveal the contents of the letter to him. It was a stupid hope, a strange hope, but he hoped nonetheless. 

When he arrived at the tower, it seemed emptier than a graveyard. This boded ill for the plan, Podrick believed, but tried not to linger on this thought. A guard allowed him into the room, recognizing him as Prince Jaime’s squire, and suddenly he was in the presence of twelve girls of varying ages.

The last time he had visited, they had all looked terrible, their faces pale and drawn, but they looked even worse now, closer to death than to life.

Podrick tightened his grip on the letter as he made his way to Sansa, who was lying listlessly in her bed. 

He had to cough to catch her notice. “Oh, Squire Podrick,” she said. He was warmed to see her make an effort to smile at him. “What do you need from me? Prince Jaime already spoke to us this morning, as usual.”

This didn’t surprise Podrick. Prince Jaime would have wanted to see how Princess Brienne was doing. And, as Podrick snuck a glimpse at his friend, she did not seem to be doing well. 

Staring up at the ceiling with a look of concentration, beads of sweat crawled on her face. He wondered if she was feverish.

“Squire Podrick?” Princess Sansa asked, and Podrick realized this wasn’t the first time she had said this. 

Embarrassed, he handed the letter to her without speaking.

“What’s this?” she asked, grasping the letter. “Oh, I can’t open it.”

He heard a snicker from another bed. “Oh, Sansa, you’re weaker than me!” Princess Arya proclaimed.

Sansa’s face became red, but from anger — not embarrassment. “Shut up, Arya!” She turned back to Podrick. “Could you help me?”

Trying not to reveal too much enthusiasm, he broke the seal open quickly and handed the letter back to her, not before seeing Littlefinger’s handwriting. 

So it wasn’t Princess Sansa’s mother writing to her after all.

Princess Sansa frowned as she read the letter. “This makes very little sense,” she said, but when Podrick looked at her curiously, she stopped speaking. 

“Princess Sansa?” he found himself asking, “Are you all right?”

Tears filled her eyes, “I’m terribly frightened,” she whispered, glancing back at her sister’s bed. Arya wasn’t paying attention to them any longer, instead, she was looking at the window near Princess Daenerys bed. Podrick wondered if Princess Arya missed seeing the outside world. 

“I feel as though this is the end,” Princess Sansa continued, still whispering. “Please don’t let anyone else know how frightened I am.”

“I w-won’t,” he promised and she smiled at him. Despite her flushed face, tear-filled eyes, and the smell of sweat that continually permeated the air surrounding her, Podrick had never found her so wonderfully beautiful. And he almost told her so, but instead, he ducked his head. “I… I have to go prepare Littlefinger’s horse now.”

Princess Sansa crinkled her forehead. “I wonder why. He never travels,” she muttered, more to herself than to Podrick.

Podrick shrugged and tried to smile at her. “Take care, Princess.”

“I’ll try… _Podrick_.” Princess Sansa said.

It was very hard for Podrick to keep the large grin off his face as he made his way to the stables. Very, very hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry for the long wait, the last few months have been kind of insane IRL and then once I was ready to write again, I completely forgot how to do so. 
> 
> The chapter after this is already written so you won't have to wait long for it, just want to fix it up a little bit, to make sure it's all good.


	30. Arya III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Curse Breaks.

**_ Arya III _ **

* * *

 

The grass felt soft on Arya’s feet. 

It was probably the last night she’d ever feel it. 

After the night before, when she spotted the dark blood on the grass as they left for their rooms, she sensed that the end was coming. She didn’t know which princess bled — but surely that had to be a sign of an ending. 

Arya still remembered the days where some of the princesses (and even some of the servants) would call her Arya Horseface. This was thanks to some cruel, childish jape of Sansa’s, who was still ashamed that the name traveled so far throughout the castle.

But Arya had never felt so far from that now, looking at herself in the dark glittering waters that showed her reflection. _She was beautiful._

_You look like Lyanna, my sister, the rose of Winterfell,_ her father told once her when she was small and when he was alive, looking so despondent and old as he said it, as if looking like Lyanna doomed Arya to Lyanna’s fate. 

Arya refused to be like her cursed aunt. 

She wasn’t going to die, not like this, not because of something this **_stupid_**.

A giggle pulled her thoughts away from Winterfell and Lyanna and made her look at Arianne, whose own beauty was breathtaking. 

The Dornish princess twirled her long, dark hair and smiled.

Arya hated that as soon as they entered this forest it was as if their thoughts were muddled and changed. Why was she thinking about stupid Lyanna? About how beautiful she was? Why was she acting like a silly girl rather than a woman cursed?

Not one of them liked this anymore. Not one of them wanted to be here.

Alla could even die soon. She was probably the one who bled on the grass.

Yet all the Tyrell princesses smiled and cooed and laughed as if they were unaware that they were going to lose one of their own. 

But they did know.

Arya couldn’t even scowl, it was as if every time she tried, she remembered how beautiful she looked and how the men flocked to her as much as they did to Sansa. 

_She was wanted._

Pinpricks glided over her arms, almost as if she was being stabbed by cold needles. Arya stiffened. Not only was she wanted, it seemed that she was also being _watched_.  Perhaps Sansa hadn’t been wrong the other night. 

Leaving the ballroom, where the men gathered to dance with the princesses, Arya followed her gut rather than her desperate want. Her want, of course, was to dance and spin and pirouette out and around the dance floor as if she belonged there.

But this feeling was more important, so she tugged herself away, somehow knowing she had to find out who was watching her.

Because someone was. 

And it wasn’t any of the men, nor was it any of the other princesses, as they were all gathered in the ballroom. 

It was someone who did not belong.

She saw nothing outside after she closed the door to the ballroom, she could only see the branches of the glass trees shaking as the wind whistled by them. The wind kissed Arya’s face and she wondered vaguely where it came from. Could wind exist in a dream?

Something broke behind her and Arya whirled to find…

Nothing… nothing but the door.

While she saw nothing, she could feel something there. It was an instinctual feeling, one that came from the challenge of training beside Brienne and Asha. Arya itched for her sword and reached for it, almost forgetting that that Needle was not there with her now.

_ Why would she possess a sword in a dream? _

“Who’s there?” she demanded. “I know you’re there. You were there last night too. And maybe even the night before that! Who are you?”

She looked more closely at what was in front of her, only finding a trail of blood on the grass. The door was closed, the gleaming white stones in the door almost hurting Arya’s eyes from the brightness. She could see her reflection in the glass window, her dark hair twirled in an elaborate hairdo that she could not remember fixing, her frown frozen. 

And then she could not see herself at all. There was a man, no, _a boy_ , in front of her, his shoulders so wide that she could imagine him carrying a child on them, his eyes so blue that she almost felt as if she was swimming in the sea. 

“You!” she said, surprised at seeing Gendry. He was just a boy — how did he get here? 

Or was he a man? He looked more man than boy now and for some reason Arya wanted to hold her breath when she looked at him, his blue eyes shining in the darkness that swallowed everything.

Gendry had a strange, stubborn look on his face. “Princess,” he greeted with a stupid frown. “I- uh- well I didn’t mean to show myself to you, m’lady.”

Arya didn’t care about that and instead peppered him with questions. “How did you do that? How are you here? Never mind, I don’t care, is my brother here too? Are you here to save us? Wait, how are you going to even save us by being here? You’ll just get trapped!”

It was there that he interrupted, handing her a strange cloth. “This is how I did that. You can tell no one. I’m… I’m not even sure why I’m telling you.” He seemed concerned but Arya paid him no mind, too focused on the patterns that swirled over the material.

She poured the fabric over her hand. Her right disappeared as if it had been chopped off... like Prince Jaime’s hand. “How is this happening?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “But it got me here without becoming like one of your stupid dancing men.”

“Do you not dance then?” Arya found herself asking, feeling stupid as she did so. Who was she? _Sansa?_ A stupid girl wishing to dance with a handsome boy?

His reply was dry. “Now’s not really the time. You have to tell me what’s going on.”

“You’re seeing what’s going on!” Arya’s throat felt tight. “We’re dancing in a ballroom. A stupid ballroom that lays in a grove full of glass trees and a starry sky. I don’t even like dancing,” she added. 

Gendry rapped his knuckles on the stone that held her sister and the others — the stone that held a ballroom. “It seems so real,” he said, almost in wonder. “How is this happening?”

“I don’t know!” Arya retorted. “Aren’t you the one who's supposed to figure that out?!” She felt guilty as soon as she said that. Brienne told them all that they needed to observe, that they needed to see any weaknesses in the dream, or whatever this world was, that they had to save themselves. That no one was going to save them.

But maybe Gendry could help…

He made it here after all. Without turning into a dancing fool like the others. He was here and safe and wanted to help them.

He was still rapping the rock. “We went through a trapdoor to get here,” he muttered. “Yet we’re not in the tower.”

“ _No, really_?”

His glare was sharp. “I’m thinking!”

“Think quietly like a normal person! Stupid.”

He made a strange sound almost like a growling dog. “I can’t believe —“ he stopped. “Never mind.”

Arya didn’t like that. “What is it?” she demanded, “What can’t you believe?”

Amazingly, he was suddenly the color of Sansa’s hair. “Never mind, just shut up.”

“Stupid,” she said again. 

He sighed, that stubborn look coming back, “Take me through the woods, if you’d please, Princess.”

“Why?” she asked skeptically, “What’s out there? And my name is Arya!”

Gendry ignored that.“I don’t know. Don’t you? You’ve been here every night for months and you haven’t looked?”

He was trying to goad her, Arya knew, and damn him to the seven hells, it worked. “I’ll go now!” she said, marching away, trying to ignore the slight pain in her feet. It was then that she remembered that it was hard to walk in the forest before the night ended.

“Fuck,” she swore, wincing. 

Gendry was at her side almost immediately. “Are you all right, Princess?”

“Stop calling me that! I’m just Arya,” she glared. “And I’m fine.”

He glared back, “You don’t look fine.” Before she could smack him, he lifted her off from the ground as if she was a sack of flour, placing her over his shoulder. She could feel his breath on her arse.

“Let me down!” she said, smacking his back, amazed at the hard muscle underneath. She wondered if he even felt it. 

So she smacked him harder. 

“Stop that. We’re going in the forest.” Arya imagined that he had that stupid stubborn look on his face again. 

“Why do you even need me?” 

He stopped his movements. “I don’t know if I do.”

Arya panicked. “No, you do. I don’t want to dance.” Although that was a lie — part of her did still want to dance, to twirl, and spin around and around.

The other part, _the real her_ , wanted to see what was in the woods. 

Gendry listened. “Fine then, let’s figure out what’s happening.” 

Arya watched his footprints in the grass. Arya had never really noticed before, but the grass wasn’t green… it was black like ink. Like the sky that loomed above them. “We shouldn’t be here."

Her feet throbbed as Gendry placed her on the ground. “This place isn’t right,” she said. 

He looked at her hard. “You look better than you have every other night,” he told her. “You look human. Before…”

Arya was stung. “I thought I looked beautiful.”

“You did — you do,” the look on his face was strange and Arya almost felt like blushing. Like Sansa would. “But you looked like you were made out of the same stone as that building. You don’t now… you look like you’re made of flesh.” His index finger touched her bottom lip to prove it and Arya almost sighed. But instead she stared at him, unable to look away from his blue eyes.

The ground rumbled underneath her as Gendry drew closer. The branches rattled above as his other hand held her cheek. 

And only when his lips touched hers was she able to close her eyes - not from the feel of the kiss - but from the sky suddenly turning into a bright, white light when before it was overwhelming dark. Arya could hear screaming, male and female, and gripped Gendry tighter. She almost felt as if they were burning up together, that she was truly in one of the seven hells, that she was dying or already dead and being punished for her sins.  She couldn’t breathe or even push Gendry off if she wanted to. And she didn’t. His lips on hers were the only thing making her feel sane and so she pressed into him harder, feeling every muscle, feeling his heart melt into hers. 

Arya could hear the clanging of Gendry's sword, falling from his hip, and opened her eyes to see Brienne by Gendry’s feet, her figure the only thing that wasn’t bright light, Brienne grabbing the sword which glowed green and pushing it into the dark sky.

Wind pushed past her, whirling, and twirling, until Arya felt like she was flying...

And then Arya woke up.

“Gendry?” she said, pushing aside her blankets. It was still night, only the light of the moon shone through the windows, everything was dark. And quiet.

And her feet were not hurting. 

The others were stirring as well, except for Alla who awoke, smiled softly, and went back to sleep. Arya almost wanted to do the same but had too much energy to stay in bed. She also had to find Gendry.

“I can walk!” Shireen said gleefully. 

“We all can!” Margaery announced, gliding out of her bed like the princess she was. “It’s over! It’s finally over!”

Brienne laid in her bed, awake but still, her eyes wide as if she had fought a monster. And perhaps she did. “I’m not sure what you and that boy did, Arya,” she said. “But it weakened it. It weakened the spell.”

Arya beamed at Brienne. “And then you destroyed it.”

Brienne blushed, an ugly blush, but Arya loved it all the same. “I felt it, the sword, I mean. I feel as though I knew it.”

“Where is Gendry now? And the sword?” Arya asked, worried. In reply, she  felt a tap on her shoulder but saw nothing - no one was there. Mildly concerned until she remembered the dream, Arya smiled up at the air. “Never mind, Brienne.” 

“A kiss of true love,” Brienne said. “I suppose that’s what it was. Like in the songs that your sister loves.”

Arya scoffed, looking away from Gendry and his invisible cloak. “That’s stupid. I don’t even know anything about him.”

“He saved us.”

Arya shook her head. “No, _you saved us_.”

Brienne was about to respond when Sansa jumped on Arya’s back. “Arya! We’re alive!”

“Stop it!” Arya said, pushing Sansa off. “Aren’t you supposed to be the proper one?”

Sansa’s grin was catching. “Oh, it doesn’t matter now. We’re finally safe! And well! Let’s leave this awful tower. I can’t stand looking at it another minute.”

“But it’s the middle of the night.”

“Everyone else is leaving, except poor Alla. She’s still exhausted.” Sansa pointed out. And they were. Arianne and Asha had already left, not even bothering to change into proper clothing, while Margaery and Danaerys were helping the other girls into beautiful dresses. Everyone looked so happy and peaceful that it was almost strange to Arya after these long months of misery and illness.

And then she remembered that they were all changing in front of Gendry and so she poked the air. There might've been a cough, but Arya wasn’t sure. 

“Fine,” Brienne agreed. “But… what are we even going to do?”

Sansa smiled, looking more a Queen than a girl. "Why — we’re going to _live_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not over yet folks. Cersei is still around after all. ;)   
> Consider this Part One of the story's climax.
> 
> *insert sex joke here*
> 
> but yes there will be explanations and you'll see the other hedgeknights (and so on) soon! Probably after the second part of the climax.


	31. Cersei III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magic always has consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm.... not 100% pleased with this chapter. Usually Cersei chapters are easier for me to write but this one was hard. Probably because there's a lot going on.
> 
> But still enjoy! (and let me know if you enjoyed it please).

** Cersei III **

* * *

 

It was breaking. 

Her face was breaking apart, she could feel each crack, and could even touch the gaping holes, as if her face was made up of the stone that outlined Casterly Rock.

Everything was splitting, Cersei saw, the whole world was splitting open, and for a moment, it was as if the world was going to swallow her. 

_No, this is not how I will die. The little beast will not get me this way._

Her vision muddled more and all she could see was herself pouring the potions into the goblets of all the men who had visited the princesses, the wretched, ugly princesses. It took only a bit of sleight of hand, something she had learned when she was just a girl, so how did she miss it? How did she miss the one who saved them?

Fire and ice filled her lungs until, at last, _it was over._

Cersei was angry to feel dried tears on her face. This was not how a Lannister acted. Even in a crisis like this.

Even when the curse had broken.

At least Tyrion would be dead soon. With the help of Littlefinger, who had always hated Tyrion. The circumstances of that rivalry, Cersei didn’t care to understand. Who wouldn’t hate the little Imp? 

Trying to remember all that she had done the night before, she made her way to her mirror, suddenly afraid. Tyrion’s jug of wine had been dashed with poison — the Strangler, she believed, although she didn’t ask questions of Qyburn, just handed him a pearl necklace that her mother once wore.

She itched for the necklace now, but knew her mother would want this. Vengeance would be hers finally. Her mother's killer would be dead after years of life.

With gasping breaths, Cersei looked at her reflection, hoping to wipe away any leftover tears.

And, instead, screamed.

Oozing, melting flesh marked her once high cheekbones. Her sparkling green eyes were now yellow and sunken, and her beautiful, full lips were drier than the Dornish landscape. The lips Jaime kissed were gone.

Terrified, Cersei shed the rest of her clothes, and stood in front of her looking glass, and became enraged. Her breasts were yellow and saggy, her stomach bloated, and wrinkles covered her body. Even her soft, beautiful hands did not escape the treachery of the broken curse — they were covered in greyscale.

Distracted by her grotesque appearance, Cersei almost didn’t hear the triumphant yells outside of her window, where the courtyard stood. 

_They will all pay for this._ She smiled at her reflection, her teeth cracked and yellow. _They will burn._

Maggy’s terrible face appeared in front of her, grinning, her mossy teeth as twisted as Cersei's yellow ones. 

_The Valonqar will pay too._

With shaky hands, Cersei wrapped herself back into her gown, knowing that this would be the end for the sluts and the Imp. The curse didn’t matter when she had wildfire placed around the tower. Littlefinger was so helpful when he wanted to be — and for some reason he wanted to be.

As Cersei stepped down the stone steps, she could feel her breath shuddering. The Imp was killing her, she knew, it had to be him. Who else would try to save the brats? Who else would defy her will?

Only Tyrion.

Only that vile creature would do such a thing. 

As she entered the courtyard, she could feel the pressing glances of the triumphant princesses. She saw Jaime at the far side, too far away from her, and for a moment, he was all she could see. 

Until she spotted Tyrion next to him.

And then she shrieked.

All the attention was on her now, as it should have been the moment she entered. Her father was not yet here, she spotted, but it was no matter. She was the eldest, she would rule for him. She would judge the guilty.

Jaime rushed to her, looking afraid. She had never seen him afraid before, it almost amused her,  but then saw Tyrion struggling to catch up and remembered her appearance. He made her as ugly as he was — he made her into a monster.

“Look at what they did to me!” she yelled at Jaime, when he came closer. How dare he look at her with pity. “Look at me!”

“You look the same, Cersei, you’re still beautiful,” Jaime said, his hands reaching out to touch her face. She tore away from him, infuriated that he was lying to her. Her, the woman he bedded and loved. And now, _he lied. He dared to lie to her._

There were so many unfamiliar faces coming to her, their hands reaching out to touch her, and all she could hear was Maggy. 

“Get away from me,” she hissed. “I will kill you all.”

Jaime’s face softened as she knew it would, ** _he loved her he loved her_** , but a tall, lumbering boy… who had eyes like Robert Baratheon, _why did he have eyes like that horrible man, why was Robert's ghost haunting me now_ , grabbed her shoulders, in a terrible attempt to restrain her.

The Tyrell slut said something that Cersei couldn’t hear, but by the way the bitch was smirking, Cersei knew that the brunette would have to die first. She grabbed the boy’s sword before he could stop her and thrusted.

Jaime parried her blow, with his only usable hand. Where was his other hand? She couldn’t remember. _Why was it golden?_

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

Cersei laughed, in fury. “I am saving us. Let me save us, Jaime. Or will you save us? Save me, Jaime.”

“Cersei, what have you done?”

“Everything. All of it. It was all me,” she confessed, feeling gleeful at the ashy face of the Tyrell bitch. She heard a gasp, but only smiled wider. “I cursed them. I made them dance until they died. Except…” she looked at the Stark princesses, and lowered her sword. Why did she have a sword? “They’re not dead. Why aren’t they dead, Jaime? Kill them for me.”

The Stark with hair that shone like fire trembled while the smaller Stark rushed towards Cersei. With a snarl, Cersei raised her sword again, until her twin knocked it away with ease. 

“Tyrion is the real murderer don’t you see?” she reminded Jaime, getting on her hands and knees, looking for the sword. “He murdered our mother. And those princesses would murder me if they had the chance.”

“I surely would,” said the Ironborn girl, the ugly one who thought herself above Cersei. 

Cersei changed her mind, she’d murder that one first. “See, Jaime, they conspire against me.”

“Cersei…” Jaime trailed off. _Why wasn’t he helping her?_

“There is wildfire,” Cersie told him, standing back up, “let’s burn them all, brother.”

“Does your brother include me too?” a voice below asked. _The Imp._

“How dare you speak to me,” she hissed. “You’re the _valonqar._ ”

Jaime reached for her and she let him touch her, hoping for his embrace, but instead he just held her shoulders. She pulled away, kicking him hard in the place she once loved, and grabbed his sword.

There were so many people there now, all shadowy things who had no faces, and only one face stood out.

The big, unsightly lumbering girl from Tarth was there now, reaching down to help Jaime off the ground, grabbing his only hand. _Am I as ugly as you_ , Cersei wondered, and, in anger, she stabbed the ugly girl in the shoulder before any of the shadows could stop her from doing so.

The dark haired Stark screamed, her mouth flaming, while the lumbering boy with Robert’s eyes tried to reach for her, but she dodged him, laughing and laughing until suddenly Jaime was upon her, his eyes that belonged to her so angry, so afraid, and then he reached for her neck.

_the valonqar shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you_

“ _It’s you_ ,” she managed to gasp out as Jaime choked her, but his hands eased, and his gaze shifted. 

“Bring me wine,” he told someone he held her tightly, almost as if they were lovers again. She could see their nights together, as King and Queen, burning everything around them. She could see it so clearly. 

“Here,” the Imp said, handing Jaime a goblet, filled with a red liquid. _Of course, he had wine._

Jaime pressed the goblet to Cersei’s lips and she drank it greedily, for it was love that Jaime was giving her, it was love.

She couldn’t breathe from how much love he was showing in his eyes, he was suffocating her —

_She was suffocating_ —

_The Strangler,_ she remembered, _it was in Tyrion’s goblet — Littlefinger put it in the Imp’s jug of wine._ Cersei wanted to cry out, wanted to touch Jaime’s face, wanted to scream one last time, wanted to kiss her brother goodbye.

But, she did nothing as her throat constricted tighter and tighter until the only thing she could see…

Was Maggy laughing at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will explain Littlefinger soooooon. :)
> 
> not sure exactly which chapter but it'll come together.
> 
> Also Cersei's manner of death was inspired by another fic, the name of which I have forgotten, but if I find it again, I'll let you know.
> 
> Edit: I've been told it's this fic, A Walk with Frost and Fire (And Death and Snow) http://archiveofourown.org/works/4163376/chapters/9395799 
> 
> I can't remember if it's the exact one that inspired her manner of death but I'm pretty sure it is!


	32. Jaime IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first stage of grief.

** Jaime IV **

* * *

 

Cersei’s wails were still shuddering in his ears as he clutched her body, which was harder than any stone found in Casterly Rock. Her soft skin was gone. 

_She was gone._

When his twin had first began to cough, Jaime had assumed it was the wine. That she was choking on the wine. But then everything went wrong as he turned her over and slapped her back, the pressing stares of the princesses behind him. 

Tyrion just stood there watching as their sister’s skin turned darker and harder. She had always hated Tyrion but to do this — for she had to have planned to kill Tyrion, it was his wine that killed her. It would have been his eyes turning white instead of hers. Cersei’s hands started clutching her throat. For a moment, it looked as if his beloved twin was going to say something to Jaime, but then…

But then she died in his arms as the sun rose across the sky.

The orange sun highlighted her golden hair, and her creamy skin — even in this horrendous death, she was beautiful. Even with the claw marks on her neck, the broken blood vessels outlining her skull, she was still beautiful.

“Why did you do this?” he whispered to her, willing her to answer his query. But she wouldn’t. And she couldn’t. 

“Jaime,” someone said, but he refused to answer, unable to look away from his twin’s face. 

“ _Jaime_ ,” someone said again, much more insistently. 

But still he could not tear his gaze away. He could not let go of her. 

His mouth was wet and it was only when the wench sat beside him, brushing his hair out of his face, that he realized he was sobbing. 

“Jaime,” she said, and he realized it was Brienne who had been speaking to him. He looked at her, startled to find her blue eyes watery. Cersei had tried to kill her and yet Brienne still had compassion. “Your father is here. As is the rest of his council.”

He didn’t want to leave Brienne. She was still bleeding from her shoulder wound. He didn’t want to see his father. Tyrion stood next to Brienne now, his standing height still shorter than Brienne’s sitting height. Jaime had to resist a bubble of laughter — how could he laugh as he held his sister’s body in his arms?

“He’s coming over, Jaime,” Tyrion said, his voice low. “How are we to explain any of this?”

Jaime couldn’t answer, but stood up, his sister’s body heavier than he remembered. He used to carry her into their shared bed, laughing as she protested. And, once, Cersei even carried him, when they were still children playing pretend. But death added weight, and he struggled to hold his sister with two arms and only one hand.

Brienne stood up with him, her hands reaching out to help, but he couldn’t stand the thought of it. _Cersei had hurt her._ He pulled away and faced his father.

King Tywin has no particular expression on his face as he surveyed the scene, although he was pale. Grandmaester Pycelle looked ready to faint. 

They weren’t the only ones to enter the scene. The conspirators were entering the courtyard, right behind the King. Prince Oberyn was the first to act, saluting his niece with a wide, irritably charming grin, immediately recognizing the Dornish princess, while the wildling King looked to be searching for his hostage amongst the women. They were all so different than they had been as children it would have been shocking if they had all recognized each other immediately.

_Yet, like Prince Oberyn, some still did._ “Jon!” Arya screamed, running to her bastard brother faster than Cersei had ever run to Jaime. Sansa followed close behind, striding quickly rather than running. The bastard Stark welcomed them both into his arms, brushing past King Tywin to reach his sisters, while Robert’s bastard looked over at them all mournfully. 

That was the first flicker of anger that appeared on his father’s face. “What has happened here?” he demanded Jaime, “What has happened to my daughter?”

“She drank poison… of her own volition,” Jaime declared, hoping that no one would say anything to the contrary. _It would be simpler this way_ , he told himself. “She… she was the one who did this. She proclaimed it before she died.” 

To Jaime’s surprise, King Tywin didn’t blanch at this declaration. “She was always a foolish one,” he only said. “Grandmaester Pycelle, send for the Silent Sisters. We will need them.”

“Your daughter, your Grace,” Pycelle said, blubbering. “I cannot believe Princess Cersei would do this. A much likelier candidate is —“

“Are you calling my son a liar?” Jaime’s father’s nostrils flared. The courtyard, which had been full of murmurs and reunions, went silent. “My heir?” 

“No, your Grace,” Pycelle simpered. “I am suggesting he is mistaken —“

“Leave.” King Tywin ordered. “Get out of my sight.”

The rat left. “I — “ King Tywin stopped speaking, aware that he still had an audience of hated rivals. All of them had lost family because of the Lannisters and now they were reveling in their descent. “Jaime, take your sister’s body to the sept. And then meet me and your brother in my chambers.” 

“Yes, your Grace,” Jaime said, because that was all he could say. The wench was behind him, still bleeding from the wound Cersei gave her. “I do ask that we send a maester down, a competent one, for the princesses. They are still recovering from their stay in the tower.”

“It shall be done,” the King said, his mouth firm, before sweeping away into the mouth of the castle. 

Tyrion waddled after him, looking back only once at Jaime. Jaime wondered what a sight he must be — a one-handed fool holding the sister he once bedded over and over again, with a giantess looming behind him. 

“Jaime, do you need help?” Brienne asked, placing a hand on his shoulder. 

He shrugged it off. “No, wench, celebrate your freedom with the others. Meet the bastard Stark, it was all his plan. Or so he likes to say.”

She sounded troubled. “If you are sure, ser.”

“I am,” Jaime said and walked away, struggling to hold his sister in his arms. The walk to the sept took much longer than he remembered. The chambers where bodies were prepared — the one his mother had been prepared in long ago — were off to the side, small and cramped, with oils and other things Jaime never would know or understand. He placed Cersei on the stone tablet. 

Jaime wanted to kiss her one last time, but her mouth was open wide in shock — he hadn’t noticed that before. _I am always blind when it comes to you, sister. And you have died because of my blindness and your foolishness._

He kissed the top of her head instead, where beads of sweat from her hysteria still lay, and then he prayed to the Stranger. 

What Jaime prayed for, he wasn’t sure. He couldn’t remember how to pray — the last time he remembered praying to the Seven was during his mother’s funeral. Cersei had sat beside him, clutching his hand, the one that wasn’t there any longer. She hadn’t cried there, he remembered, as he left his sister in the dark room, all by herself, walking the halls of Casterly Rock, trying to reach the rest of his family. She only cried with him in their room. Their father didn’t cry so she could’t either, she said to Jaime, her green eyes bright with unshed tears. 

He wondered if Tywin would cry for his daughter.

But already knew the answer, as he walked into the room, rubbing the end of his stump. 

“Your brother has filled me in with the details,” King Tywin said without preamble. Tyrion gave Jaime a tired look.

“So you know that Cersei caused our deficit. You know she attempted to murder our hostages who we promised to keep safe from any harm. You know she had to have done this with help. There are many that could have helped her, Ser Lancel for one, he fed the girls, Littlefinger for another, he hates us-”

“I say it is done,” King Tywin growled, interrupting him. “Varys shall deal with the rest.”

“He wasn’t there tonight,” Jaime pointed out.

“That is because he was following Lord Baelish amongst others,” the King countered. “I have my reasons for what I do.” 

_As does everyone here._ Jaime opened his mouth to argue, but his father waved him off. “I want to rest." It was then that Jaime saw how gray his father's face looked. "It… it has been a long night. And it will be a longer day tomorrow.”

“Technically it is tomorrow,” Tyrion chimed in, his smile fading as soon as he spoke. “But I understand, father.”

Tywin flinched, but said nothing, just waving them off once more. Jaime was glad of it, not able to stand being in the same room with two people who cared nothing about his sister’s death. They were family — they should have all cared — _but only he cared._ If it had been Tyrion’s body he had carried it would have been the same.

_Family is all that matters_ , Tywin liked to say to Jaime, but when had that ever been true in their lives?

Legacy is what mattered to his father — and now their legacy was a madwoman choking on magic. It was no wonder their father didn't care.  Cersei ruined everything that mattered to him.

When Jaime reached his rooms, he was surprised to see Pod outside of them, waiting. "What are you doing here?" he asked the boy, who was as wide-eyed as ever.

"Is it true?" the boy asked, "Are they freed?"

Jaime smiled, which was a strange sensation, and thought of blue eyes. "They're free."

Podrick grinned, an expression Jaime was sure he had never seen on his squire. "Then it is a happy ending?"

"I suppose it is," Jaime said, although he could feel his smile disappearing. "But we shall see what happens next."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI Brienne isn't crying for Cersei, like Jaime believes. She's upset that he's upset. 
> 
> Anyways, like Jaime pointed out, it's not over yet! Still lots of little things to cover ;)
> 
> Including a surprise or two (probably).


	33. Sansa III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a Sansa chapteeeerrr.  
> And now she's a lot less doe-eyed and a lot more mad.  
> Also, Sanpod feels galore.

**_ Sansa III_**

* * *

 

The sea air cooled Sansa’s cheek, the wind dancing past her the way she used to dance in a dark forest underneath a tower… not so long ago.

The trapdoor was gone when they went back to look — as if it had never been there at all.Jon was befuddled and angry but the wildling girl, who hadhair more fiery than Sansa’s own locks stood next to him, only shook her head and said, “You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

There was no wildfire found either despite Cersei’s claims. The only thing the conspirators (which is what Jon and his allies were now called by the court) had found were the men the princesses had once danced with — miles away in a forest right outside Lannisport, all of them stumbling into the city with the same story. All of which featured dancing princesses and a loud clap of thunder that took everything away.

But whatever had been below their feet disappeared with Cersei into the great unknown, for no one could find the trap door again. It was gone forever which was a great relief to Sansa, only matched with her relief that Cersei was dead. She was glad Cersei was dead. The Lannister princess had never been kind to her or to any others. Once, long ago, Sansa had thought Cersei looked the way a Queen should look, but she quickly discovered the truth of Cersei’s heart. 

Perhaps Sansa should have been more surprised at Cersei’s declaration of murderous intent, but she wasn’t. However, she refused to dwell on the idea that the woman wanted to kill her and, instead, spent time with Arya and Jon when King Tywin allowed it.

She was with her family now on a cliffside not two miles away from Casterly Rock, the sea air giving her new life. Squire Podrick was their chaperone of sorts, a mostly silent statue who smiled when Arya did something amusing and turned red when Sansa spoke to him. King Tywin still didn’t want any of the princesses to leave — despite being unable to keep his end of the bargain which is why Podrick was by their side. He had to make sure they didn’t run away back to the North, as if he could stop Jon from whisking them away.

Prince Oberyn and the King from Beyond-the-Wall were struggling to convince the Lannister King of anything, and Jon gave up when the King tried to force him to choose between keeping her or Arya.

Sansa had been surprised when Jon told them this, she was used to men not telling them anything at all. “I will stay with you,” he promised, his voice wavering as he did. “Until I can convince him to allow me to take both of you home. _To Winterfell._ ”

“Will Mother remember me?” Arya asked, her voice small. Sansa stared at her younger sister — she was surprised to hear Arya speak so quietly. 

“I remembered you didn’t I?” Jon smiled. “Of course, your mother will.”

That conversation was days past and Jon still had gotten no further in negotiations with the King. He spoke to Arya about weaponry instead, the two of them laughing and debating about things Sansa didn’t quite understand. She just watched them, feeling lonely until Squire Podrick, who was standing a few yards behind them, waved at her.

She waved back, unable to stop a smile from spreading across her face. Squire Podrick had been so kind to her since he came back from his journey with Prince Jaime across the Westerlands. _Even before then_ , she remembered, thinking of days before the curse had spread across their laps, when she could dance and not wince at the memory. 

He was always kind, like a true knight _— like Florian._

_Does that make me Jonquil?_ Sansa wanted to laugh at the thought, but instead found herself walking over to Podrick, away from Arya and Jon and the sea that lay beneath the top of the cliff. “Hello, Squire Podrick,” she said. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

Podrick smiled shyly. “I am, Princess Sansa. T-th-thank you.”

“I am glad you are our guide today,” she confided, ignoring his stuttering. “Grand Maester Pycelle followed us to the library yesterday and it was a great discomfort. And I’m not sure why he was of any use. If Jon truly wanted to take us home, the Grand Maester wouldn’t have been unable to stop us.”

Prince Jaime’s squire had a peculiar look on his face. “Home? You have lived nearly all your life here, is — is this not your home?”

She couldn’t imagine that a ward would understand the feelings of a hostage, but she tried to explain it as best as she could to Podrick. “I miss my mother and my brothers. I haven’t seen them since I was a girl, but I love them still.”

“I don’t have a family, truly,” Podrick frowned. It wasn’t a pleasant expression on him. Sansa desired to see him smile once more. “But if I did… I suppose I would feel the same.”

“My family is my home,” Sansa said and wanted to say more, but was startled. 

Neither Podrick nor her noticed a horse and his rider come up to the tops of the cliff and Sansa was afraid to see it was Littlefinger. 

He had been acting oddly for weeks before the end of the curse. He asked her strange questions and visited her more and more often — telling her stories about her mother and ignoring Arya as he did so. Arya hated the man so she didn’t mind being ignored, but it still had felt wrong to Sansa. The day before the curse had broken Littlefinger had sent that letter, through Podrick, and asked her how well she rode… and she still didn’t understand why he had asked such a thing of her. 

Wasn’t it well known that she detested riding? She wasn’t Arya. She wasn’t half a horse.

Podrick saw her stiffen and bent down to speak. _He has grown_ , she noticed dimly, _he is taller than me now. And he’s almost taller than Jon._ “What is it, Princess Sansa?” he asked, still blind to Lord Baelish’s approach.

“My Lord Hand,” she greeted loudly, wishing for Jon to be beside her. She hoped he heard her, Jon had only met the Hand twice but already distrusted him. But that may have been due to the letter Littlefinger sent to Winterfell. The reason Jon was here.

At her greeting, Podrick’s frown grew deeper and he stepped beside her, a hand on the pommel of his sword.

She almost smiled at him but was unable to for Littlefinger had reached them. 

“What a lovely little party,” Littlefinger said, smoothing his pointed beard while he greeted them. His mouth smiled and his eyes did not. Sansa almost reached for Podrick’s hand but made herself stop before she did something that stupid. “But I suppose I will need to break this up.”

Sansa took a step back before she could help herself but Littlefinger did not reach for her. Instead he sighed heavily and bellowed. “Lord Snow,” Sansa grimaced for her bastard brother. He hated that name. Almost as much as Littlefinger hated Littlefinger. “I believe this news concerns you and both of your sisters.”

Jon was beside Sansa in an instant, Arya running up beside him, her grey eyes growing in distaste. 

“What is it Lord Baelish?” Jon asked. “As you have made clear to me, King Tywin is not allowing me to take my sisters home so I am spending time with them here. Prince Jaime allowed this graciously.”

“King Jaime,” Littlefinger corrected with a little smile, although it still didn’t reach his eyes.

It took a moment for Sansa to understand. “What?” she demanded, carelessly, “What in seven hells do you mean?”

Arya giggled at her cursing but Sansa paid her sister no mind, looking intently upon the man who had said he would rescue her from broken feet with just a steed. The man who had lied about everything to everyone. _Was he lying now?_ “The King is dead,” the liar said, his terrible smile unceasing, “Long live the King.”

“But how — we were just at Casterly Rock?” Jon asked, while Arya watched Littlefinger carefully. _What was Arya looking for — more lies?_

“The King has been ill for many days now, since his daughter’s passing,” Littlefinger explained, as if he was speaking to several small children. Sansa wished Arya would kick him. “And has finally reached the end of his life, after days of struggling. Poor Prince Tyrion found him in the privy.” His smile grew true again, his eyes sparkling with unrestrained mirth. _Was it true? Was King Tywin found in such a place? The great King torn apart by his bowels?_

Littlefinger continued. “The throne now passes onto King Jaime, who has already made one declaration. I am not to be his Hand any longer. That… _honor_ goes to Prince Tyrion.”

“What will you do?” 

Sansa turned to Podrick, who had asked the question. He had a strange look in his eyes and she noticed his hand was still tightly wound around the pommel of his sword. She wondered if Jon was gripping his weapon but was afraid to look. If they were both gripping their weapon, they truly were in danger from Littlefinger.

“As my last duty was to alert you, I was hoping you would take me to Winterfell with you.” He smiled. “After all, I am a great friend to your mother, the Dowager Queen —“

“No!” Arya said, placing herself in front of them all defiantly. “You are not welcome in my father’s home.”

“And if I said Cat had already invited me?” Littlefinger trailed off.

“I would say you are a worse liar than I am,” Sansa said, surprising herself. He raised his hand and she expected him to strike her. Why she wasn’t sure, but she was preparing herself for the inevitable slap. However, instead of hitting her, he smiled a true smile at her — one that reached his eyes. 

“You did learn something then, child.”

“I would suggest you leave,” Jon said, impatient. “Quickly.”

“I am still in residence at Casterly Rock, so this won’t be the last you see of me,” Littlefinger stated, although Sansa wondered if he was really giving a warning. 

Jon glowered. “But it will be one of the last times.” Her bastard brother looked the way Sansa remembered her Father looking, before the Long War. Before Robb died. Fierce, sad, and kind. “I will make sure that it will be one of the last times you gaze at my sister. Bran will not allow you to Winterfell — none of us shall. We have heard the rumors.”

_Rumors?_ Sansa was unaware of what they spoke about. “What rumors?”

“That he helped Princess Cersei with her plots,” Jon said, scowling. “That is why, if what you say is true, King Jaime relieved you of your position.” 

Littlefinger’s smile was false once more. “He chooses to believe in these false rumors, obviously spread by the noxious Imp. Perhaps Varys had a hand in it, as well?” Beside her, Podrick squirmed. Sansa wondered why but did not dwell on it as the former Hand kept speaking. “If the Princess had elicited my help, and she did not, I would have done my duty and charged her with treason.”

Jon looked more disgusted. “Save your lies for court, none of us believe them.”

The Lannister court didn’t believe them either, if what everyone was whispering about was true. When they had arrived back at the castle, with Littlefinger in front of them (Jon didn’t trust the former Hand behind them), servants and nobles alike had stared. 

But it was impossible to dwell on their disgusted faces as they were all ushered into the hall where Prince Jaime sat. He looked ill-fitted for his father’s throne, but Sansa thought it may have been grief wearing down his face. For he was grayer than she remembered even though she had just seen him the day before — speaking to his brother in the courtyard in hushed whispers. 

And now — his father’s crown was upon his head. 

“You have made it,” Prince — King Jaime sighed. “I suppose Lord Baelish told you the news then?” He was pointedly ignoring the presence of all the other princesses and their families, focusing his attention only on Jon. Her poor bastard brother had the ear of a King.

Jon bowed his head. “Yes, I have, your Grace.”

“I suppose no one weeps but me,” King Jaime said, a wry smile upon his face, “And, of course, my Hand. But it is true — my father rests with my sister. He suffered from an illness none of us knew about. Perhaps I should blame my dear sister for it.”

Grand Maester Pycelle who was among the crowd, called out. “It is unfair to say such a thing, your Grace. Your father was aging and her sins died with her alone.” 

King Jaime’s jaw clenched so tightly that Sansa was almost afraid that he broke some of his teeth, but then he smiled so widely she could see all of his white teeth, even though she stood several feet away from his throne. “Aye, and so do my Father’s. With his sins in mind, I have come to say the negotiations are off.”

“What?” Prince Oberyn demanded. Sansa had only met him when Jon introduced her and Arya to the rest of the conspirators. The Dornish prince walked briskly forward, only stopped by one of the Lannister guards, who held up his saber in front of Prince Oberyn. 

“I am ending the negotiations,” King Jaime repeated. He smirked and all Sansa could feel was hatred. She would have to stay here with him and the rest of his ilk! He couldn't end the negotiations. He couldn't.

She hated him. 

She hated them all.

“I am ending them,” he said again, his smirk ebbing away, “because there is no need for them. The princesses may leave if they wish. And if they wish to stay… they may also do that.”

Arya whooped as if she were a bastard boy rather than a highborn girl, but Jon only encouraged her by embracing them both, his grip tight on Sansa’s shoulders. From the little she could see and hear, her senses clouded from the forcible placement of her head on Jon’s shoulder, they were not the only ones celebrating. Margaery and the other Tyrells were clutched in a circle together, weeping with joy. Their grandmother had arrived the week before, with Margaery’s handsome brothers beside her, and even they had beautiful smiles on their faces.

“Get off, Jon,” Sansa said, without any ill will, pushing her bastard brother aside, not willing to feel like a young girl any longer. “King Jaime is still speaking.”

Or rather, attempting to speak, she noticed, but he didn’t seem to mind that no one was listening. He was too busy surveying the scene, or rather, staring at Brienne, who was standing by one of the stone pillars watching everyone else celebrate, her own mouth twisted in a mockery of a smile.

_He did love her_ , Sansa resisted a grin. She knew she had been right, and, _oh_ , Brienne would be a wonderful Queen. Not a beautiful one, to be sure, but a wonderful one. 

So much better than Cersei.

“If we can leave,” Arya asked Jon when she let him go, “when can we leave?”

“We shall need a few days, but within the week, I should hope,” Jon smiled at Arya indulgently, “a fortnight at the latest.”

Podrick opened his mouth to speak, looking troubled, but King Jaime interrupted. “That being said, there is one caveat. We promised the hand of a princess to whomever broke the curse. Gendry Waters is this man.”

Arya paled as the gazes of eleven princesses landed upon her. Sansa would have felt sorry for her but it was difficult to feel sorry for someone who had found their Florian. 

“Yet, he has not decided upon which princess to marry,” King Jaime continued. “And so you cannot leave until he does. You may set up your plans, however. I expect he will choose quickly and wisely.”

From the way King Jaime spoke, it didn’t sound like Gendry had much of a choice in that regard. 

And, as Sansa looked around for their young hero, she realized he wasn’t even in the hall. She was about to mention this fact when Podrick startled her by saying, “Ser Jon Snow.”

“Just Jon if you’d please,” Jon smiled. 

Podrick blushed, “Jon, then. I was wondering if you’d be willing to take me up north. King Jaime has promised to knight me within a fortnight and after that I will be my own man.”

_Man? But he was just a boy._

But perhaps he wasn’t a boy any longer, Sansa thought, looking over his broad shoulders. _Why do I feel a need to blush?_

“Why would a Lannister squire wish to come to the cold and hard North?” Jon demanded. “You belong to the Westerlands.”

“I belong to me,” Podrick argued, his voice quiet, his gaze focused at his feet. “And I wish to be with the people who have treated me the kindest. I wish for no more games of spying. I wish to only protect those who treat others with respect. Those with honor.”

Sansa spoke up, unsure of why she was doing so. “Podrick has always been kind to us, Jon.” 

Her brother still looked unsure until Arya joined her. “He’s a good sort for a Lannister dog. He’s never been cruel, only kind.”

Podrick winced at that but Arya’s words seemed to hold more weight for Jon. “If your King agrees,” Jon said. “But you will have to switch your allegiance to my King if you leave.”

“To King Brandon?” Podrick asked. “I would be willing to do so.”

“Then ask your King permission to leave his service. I will be surprised if any King would agree to such terms.”

“I h—hold no land. I am unimportant. He is a good man and will let me go.”

“If you say,” Jon shook his head. “But I fear that you will be punished for such a question.”

Podrick laughed. It was a laugh so alive that Sansa could feel her heart beating desperately in her chest until Podrick smothered his beautiful laugh with his own hand. “I’m sorry, but King Jaime has never punished me. Even when I do mess up.”

“And you wish to leave him?”

“I wish to leave the Westerlands…” Podrick looked at Sansa, his gaze unyielding “so I can find my home.”

Her breath shaky, Sansa smiled, and wished she could touch the palm of his hand. If Jon wasn't there, she would have attempted it. "I hope you'll find it with us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all caught what really happened to good old King Tywin.  
> also, I know in a real universe podrick would probably not be allowed permission to go gallivanting off North but this is why it's fanfiction haha.


	34. Tyrion III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion deals with being the Hand of the King.

**_ Tyrion III _ **

* * *

 

It was still hard to believe his father was dead. When Tyrion found the man in his most fragile state, his body already stinking from death, he still couldn’t believe it. Yet there he was, dead and sitting on a chamber pot. 

Tyrion couldn’t stop the truth from spreading and a terrible part of him relished the way his Father died. It was such a human way to go — and for so long his father seemed inhumanly perfect, something he demanded of his children as well. Something none of them were able to be.

_A madwoman, a cripple, and an imp._

While most seemed to wave away his father’s death as another symptom of the terrible curse Cersei unleashed, Tyrion knew it couldn’t be so. There were so many enemies under their roof including ones who dealt in poison — the Viper had supped with Tyrion and his father both… could he have been his father’s killer?

If he had been, Tyrion wasn’t sure what to do about it. Jaime would demand Prince Oberyn’s head as soon as Tyrion even mentioned the idea and that would only bring more war when they finally had peace. There were no more hostages — they could all go home. 

And no longer would Tywin Lannister glare down at his youngest son. 

For that, Tyrion would have liked to thank Prince Oberyn, if he was truly his father’s killer. 

And he had to be, the more Tyrion thought about it. If Tywin was murdered at all, it’d be through poison as there were no other signs of distress — no crossbow through the stomach, no hands wrapped around his neck — it would have to be internal. And considering how ill and pale his father had looked, it made sense.

More sense than his father dying of an illness. Tywin Lannister could not die in such a tedious manner.

“Lord Hand,” Podrick said, poking his head in. Tyrion was irritated to notice the boy seemed to have grown even more since they had last spoken. Or perhaps he was merely irritated that the boy chose to leave them for the frigid North with the frigid northerners. Or perhaps he was irritated that Jaime was letting him. “A letter arrived from Tarth.” 

“Tarth?” Tyrion asked, bemused. “Have they finally heard the news as well?”

“Which news, my lord?” Podrick asked, without any sense of humor. _Ah, well, I suppose I’ll miss this back and forth._

“I suppose we shall find out, Pod,” Tyrion said, ripping open the letter with his own hands. He could have used the letter opener that Jaime gave him long ago, but he was having a bit too much fun. Podrick said nothing, standing there like a statue, like one of the ones Grand Maester Pycelle was insisting they erect of the former King Tywin. 

Tyrion already had Tywin Lannister looming over him while the damnable man lived, he didn’t need a statue three times the size of his father to do it while the damnable man was rotting. 

“Ser? What does it say?” Podrick asked.

Tyrion shook his head and the swarm of letters made sense once again… and no longer looked like Tywin Lannister’s face. “It says that they are coming for our dear Brienne, Pod,” Tyrion said, once he skimmed it quickly. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, but somehow it was one. 

“Oh.”

“Yes, by the date of this letter I expect they shall be here within the week. The ravens are slower than usual it seems.”

“Well,” Podrick tried to smile, “at least she will be able to go home.”

“Is this not her home, Pod?” Tyrion asked, realizing he’d miss the giant woman his brother favored. “We did not treat them dishonorably.” 

“Your sister did,” Pod said, surprising Tyrion, and, by the looks of it, surprising himself. “Excuse me, my lord.”

“You are excused then, Pod, but send the onion knight Stannis favors so much in… I know he just arrived last night, but it is imperative I speak to him.”

Pod nods and, once again, surprises Tyrion by speaking. “He is already in the solar outside, with some of the ironborn who arrived with him.”

Curious. That was left out of Varys’ information. “Send them in then, Pod.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Within moments, Podrick was gone and hardened men were in, and Tyrion realized upon seeing them that he had no clue who any of them were. “We are here to demand our women back,” one said, growling. “She will be your salt wife no longer.”

Tyrion held his hands up with what he hoped was a disarming smile. “As if I could catch a fish like Asha Greyjoy. Sit, sers, and tell me your demands in full.” 

They had not yet heard of Jaime’s pronouncement, Tyrion surmised as he listened to the men talk over one another. They seemed like stupid men and he wondered if it was even a good idea to let Asha go back with them — she’d win their hearts and their minds and suddenly there’d be Ironborn raids alongside their coasts once again. 

But Jaime didn’t think of things like this. 

_This is why he shouldn’t be King,_ a terrible part of him thought, but he ignored it and smiled at the Ironborn. “And is the mysterious Onion Knight here as well? Do you not have demands?”

The only man who had stayed quiet through the previous proceedings stood up, his hands folded in front of him, clasped together enough so Tyrion was not able to see if it was true that Stannis removed the man’s fingers. 

Pity.

“That would me, my Lord Hand. I, Lord Davos devoted servant of King Stannis, wish to bargain for Princess Shireen, the daughter of King Stannis, the trueborn ruler of the Stormlands —“

_By the Seven did the man ramble_. Tyrion held his own hand _(full of fingers)_ up with another smile. “Please stop. I can assure you that all of you will get what you want.”

“How can you promise such a thing?” one of the Ironborn growled. 

_Because my stupid brother did a stupid thing._ “Because my brother, the newly crowned King of the Westerlands wants peace in our lands, not war. He has seen the suffering of the princesses and knew it was not right for it to go on longer. They may return home within a fortnight unless, of course, the hero who saved them chooses one of your princesses for a bride. But,” he said, upon seeing the murderous looks on the Ironborns’ faces, “I believe that will not be the case. I believe we know which princess he will choose.”

Lord Davos gaped, “May I see the Princess? She was a babe the last I saw her.”

“Princess Shireen should be in the courtyard or the library. Ask my brother’s squire to guide you. And Princess Asha will be in the training yard at this time.”

“Thank you, my lord Hand,” Lord Davos said, his voice gruffer than before. _Was the man becoming teary-eyed? Wasn’t he a former smuggler?_ “We shall never forget this.”

The Ironborn collectively rolled their eyes and Tyrion had a mighty urge to join them, but kept up the smile. “As we shall never forget your delightful Princess. Podrick!” he called out, relieved when Podrick immediately popped through the door, “Please help these men find their princesses.”

Podrick bowed and said, “Right this way,” and off they went, even the most reluctant of the Ironborn, who looked like they were enjoying their seat too much.

And, once they were all gone, Tyrion looked at the Tarth letter once again.

_How am I going to tell Brienne? No, that wasn’t the right question. The right question is how am I going to tell my brother?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so I'm not sure when the next update will be, but I am aiming for mid-June to be done with this whole thing! Only a few more ends to tie and then the epilogue :)


	35. Arya IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya finally speaks to Gendry again.

**_ Arya IV _ **

* * *

 

The sunlight spooled around Sansa. It reminded Arya of a cat wrapped around the leg of a butcher and she had to smile at the sight. Sansa was helping Arya with her armor, tutting loudly as she did. “I thought you wanted to learn to fight,” Arya teased, knowing her elder sister would do no such thing now that the spell was broken. 

Sansa rolled her eyes while handing Arya her helmet, an ugly, bent thing that barely fit a small child’s head. “One of us has to at least pretend to be a highborn maid.”

“I am a highborn maid!” Arya protested, but put on the helmet. 

Just because she kissed Gendry, well, _it didn’t mean anything_. It was a kiss. She didn’t lose her maidenhead. She kissed him. 

It wasn’t a kiss of _true love_ , like Brienne said. That was silly and stupid and something Sansa would think. Although Sansa seemed to think something else. 

“Where is the boy who saved us?” Sansa asked, not able to refer to Gendry by name for some reason. Arya didn’t understand why that was. “The one that kissed you.”

“I haven’t seen him since Cersei died,” Arya said. She hoped she said it in a careless manner as if she was Arianne. 

But she wasn’t and by what she could see of Sansa’s face, the helmet obliterated much of her sight, her sister didn’t believe her. 

“Oh, Arya,” Sansa sighed, although she sounded amused. “You know the King promised Gendry the hand of any Princess he’d like to marry. King Tywin did, and then King Jaime after him. Who do you think he’ll choose?”

Arya blushed, grateful that her helmet was large enough to hide her cheeks. “Dany, maybe? She’s the prettiest.”

“You’re so stupid.”

Now Arya wished the stupid helmet wasn’t blocking her glare. “No, you are! And don’t call me stupid,” she added under her breath, annoyed.

Sansa didn’t hear her. “He’ll choose you, Arya,” Sansa warned. “And he’ll be given a lordship I’m sure. Not even Jon will be able to protect you from it. That is,” at this, Sansa’s voice grew sly, “if you want to be protected from it.”

“It’s a good thing you haven’t handed me my sword yet,” Arya replied. She wanted to hit Sansa hard but knew she couldn’t. She wasn’t a child any longer. “Or else I would smack you by the broadside.”

Sansa tutted but mercifully said nothing. 

Arya knew she should have been afraid that Sansa was right. That despite Jon’s consoling words, she could still be taken away from her family. But she was more afraid that Sansa was wrong. That Gendry didn’t want her. _Why would he want her?_ She wasn’t pretty like Sansa or the rest. She was a horse-faced girl and always would be. She only felt pretty in the enchanted woods — and it was there where Gendry kissed her. 

He had yet to really speak to her since... he was huddled up with the Martells most of the day. Perhaps he would pick Arianne, for she was older and more beautiful and more experienced than Arya. And the Martells loved him while Jon barely said two words to the fellow bastard.

_Why didn’t Jon like him_ , Arya wondered, _he should love Gendry. The way — the way everyone should love Gendry._

When Arya finished training for the day, her muscles tiring out much earlier than she would have liked ( _thanks to that stupid curse and stupid Cersei),_ she changed and went off to the cliffs outside of Casterly Rock. She didn’t need an escort any longer, and while Podrick would have insisted on escorting her if he saw her leave the gates, he was too busy to know where Arya was. Podrick spent most of his days mooning after Sansa, although Arya doubted that her beautiful sister noticed the soon-to-be-knighted boy. 

Gendry was already at the top of the cliff when she arrived.  He looked stronger than she remembered, taller too, and it annoyed her. But what really annoyed her was the he was alone and if she didn’t hide soon, behind one of the giant rocks that littered the scenery, he’d see her. He’d try to speak to her and she almost hid behind a rock when she realized this. _He can’t steal me, he can’t. I am a Stark. No one can have me._

Instead of hiding she stood straight and tall and called out to the only boy she had ever kissed. “Gendry,” she greeted with a nod, attempting to stroll past him, but he moved in front of her. 

“Can we talk?” he asked, looking as if he wasn’t actually asking, his eyes shining. 

Arya huffed. “Fine.”

He stood there, looking stupid for a whole minute before she got fed up. “Are you going to ask me something?” 

“I was trying to figure out what to say,” he replied, flushing. “But I wanted to tell you that I’m telling Prin— King Jaime that I’m not going to marry anyone against their will.” 

“What does that have to do with me?” she asked as airily as she could manage, trying not to squirm. His gaze was suffocating. “The kiss meant nothing, it was the spell. I knew you wouldn’t choose me.”

Gendry shook his head. He had a stupid, stubborn look on his face. “If I had to choose anyone in the world, I would choose you.”

Arya’s breath caught in her throat but she made herself speak. “That’s stupid,” Arya said, looking away from him. She was suddenly very glad she ran into him outside of Casterly Rock, out in the open where no one else ever went. It was once her secret spot, but somehow Gendry knew about it too. 

Out of the corner of her eyes she saw Gendry reach for her shoulders and she spun away before he could touch her. “What are you doing?” she demanded.“Why did you even come here?” she asked, placing her hands on her hips. “Why aren’t you back in your village or wherever you’re from!”

Gendry looked irritated at her questions. “Because when I heard about the hostages, I… I somehow knew I had to stop it.”

“How? How did you know?” 

“There were a lot of clues,” he smiled at her. “But most of all I wanted to make sure you all were safe. I didn’t think it was fair that you were punished for a war you didn’t fight in.”

Arya sniffed.“I would have fought if I could have.”

“That would have been stupid.”

“Because I’m a girl?” Arya was enraged. “That is —“

“Not what I was going to say,” Gendry said, a laugh on his lips. “I was going to say because you were a small child.”

“Hmph.” Arya said. “Where are you going next, then?”

“I suppose I’ll stay here,” he said. “The Imp promised me a knighthood.” _Not a lordship._  Arya frowned while Gendry continued speaking, “and a place at court. Although I’ve also been invited to Dorne by Prince Oberyn.”

_He couldn’t go to Dorne!_ Arya tried not to think of Gendry and Arianne tangled up in a bed together, but the image forced its way to the front of her mind. It must have shown in her face because Gendry looked worried.

“What is the matter?” he asked.

“Come to Winterfell,” she blurted out. _Stupid, stupid, stupid, why did I say that?_

Gendry’s face calmed and she could see that he was resisting a smile. This just annoyed her. “What will I do there?”

“Anything you want,” Arya promised for him, praying that Bran wouldn’t hate her for it. Or at all… she hadn’t seen Bran in so long she wondered if he was as kind as he once was as a little boy. She hoped he was. She hope the burden of ruling didn't make him hard.

“I’ll go then.” Gendry promised, although his smile disappeared. “Will… will the North be calmer than the Westerlands? Will Winterfell?” he asked.

Arya shook her head. “I don’t know.”

To her surprise, Gendry only laughed at her response. “With you there, I doubt it could be calm.”

She lept at him, ready to push him to the ground, but, instead, he caught her. He was so strong, Arya realized, the way his arms wrapped around her made her feel small… yet safe. The way she felt with Robb… and Jon… and _Father._

That was until Arya looked into his eyes. They were strong eyes… and they looked like Shireen’s. But she didn’t feel this way looking into Shireen’s, her breath didn’t catch in her throat, her lips didn’t tingle, her lower stomach didn’t feel hard and warm as if she had been laying out in the sun all day. 

Daring to be brave, she kissed him. It was chaste — a quick pressing of the lips and it did nothing to soothe any of her sensations. But she couldn’t quite justify doing more than that — she was too afraid.

Gendry let her go gently and Arya’s feet were able to touch the ground again. She had not realized that they were off the ground at all. 

“I —“ His expression was unreadable. 

And she felt herself blushing. _Blushing!_ “Sorry,” she said. 

He laughed — was he laughing at her — but then he pulled Arya back up and kissed her, as if he had never laughed at all.

_This kiss wasn’t chaste. This kiss would have Sansa in a fit if she saw._

Arya smiled. She was relieved that Sansa couldn’t see it. That she couldn’t see Gendry twirling his hands in her hair, that she couldn’t see Arya bite his bottom lip. And when Gendry’s tongue touched hers, Arya forgot Sansa existed at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there is the conclusion to Gendrya ;)  
> Up next... Brienne.


	36. Brienne III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne tells Jaime she's leaving.

**_ Brienne III _ **

* * *

The Starks left with Podrick and Gendry and the wildlings in tow, all of them leaving Casterly Rock with wide smiles that felt strange to see. 

It was hard for Brienne to smile. 

How could anyone smile after so much misery? They had been saved but they had gone through so much, the spell had taken away their happiness for months and months. And now Jaime was lacking a sister and a father. Brienne had never liked them that was true, but Jaime had loved them. 

When Jaime held his sister’s body in his arms, Brienne had forgotten her own pain — the slashing, burning pain in her shoulder that threatened to devour her. But when she saw the tears on Jaime’s face her mind destroyed the feeling of her own suffering, Jaime’s devastation was all she could focus on.

And, as she now stared at Tyrion, it was Jaime she thought of first. Although she’d never admit it to his brother. “My Father is coming for me?” she asked. 

“You are his only living heir,” Tyrion said. There was a strange smile on his twisted face, and she felt uncomfortable looking at it. 

Was this how people felt when they looked at her?

“Yes, but, there’s been almost no word from him other than the other letters. You said yourself that —“

Tyrion interrupted. “Your father is a King of a small island that is beholden to no other ruler. You lack allies and support. Stannis is the closest ruler and Tarth lost his favor when you supported the claim of his younger brother.”

Brienne flinched. Her father has asked the opinion of his children, when Galladon still lived, of which Baratheon to support after Robert’s death. Brienne had loved Renly so dearly after his visits to their kingdom that she begged her father to support him. And her father, for an unknowable reason, listened. She knew that she wasn’t the deciding factor, _how could a child influence a King_ , but the burden of the decision wore on her as she witnessed Renly dying in their court, as they prepared for a naval battle against Stannis in the thunder-stricken seas outside of Tarth.

It was Stannis, Brienne knew in her heart it was Stannis that caused Renly’s death, even if she could not prove it. 

“Princess Brienne?” Tyrion asked. “Do you want to tell the King or should I?”

Brienne couldn’t speak. Telling Jaime? How could she tell him she was leaving? When he left her for a year it had hurt desperately, much more than she had expected. Would he feel the same if she left — forever? To marry some man who would close his eyes and imagine someone else underneath him in their marriage bed? To marry someone who would never care about her? To rule a kindgom she didn’t even know any longer? “We should follow what you’ve done with the other princesses,” Brienne said. 

Tyrion scoffed. “The other princesses had their families show up with little warning and with large men who threatened me. Have you not met Jon and Prince Oberyn?”

Brienne didn’t smile. Tyrion sighed, “I shall tell him, then, if you’re too craven to do it yourself.”

“I am not craven,” she said, aghast. “But why should I tell him?”

Tyrion rolled his mismatched eyes. “For the love of the Seven… because you love him.”

Brienne closed her eyes. “I do not.”

“You play the besotted lover very well then. Perhaps you should be a mummer instead of a Queen.”

Brienne wished her face and giant frame intimidated Tyrion like it did so many others, but he had never thought of her as frightening, even when she glowered. She opened her eyes and glared at him anyhow. “I am no mummer.”

“Then you’re in love with him,” Tyrion said, sounding almost bored by his declaration. “I do not have time to convince you of something you already know. I have arrangements to settle with the Tyrells, if you can believe it, Lady Olenna is trying to set Jaime up with Margaery.” Brienne blanched and Tyrion grinned. “ _See_ , you are in love.”

“Is it true?” Brienne asked, afraid. “Are they to marry?”

“Not yet,” Tyrion said, “But Lady Olenna’s arguments are persuasive. Jaime has never cared much for our Tyrell princesses, but who needs love in a marriage?”

_Jaime does… and so do I._ “I’ll tell him then since you are so busy dealing with the Tyrells and the others.”

“At least the Starks and the wildlings are gone,” Tyrion said as she got up to leave, “although I do miss Pod.”

“He is a good boy,” Brienne said.

“A good knight,” Tyrion corrected her. “Now, Jaime is in his rooms if you’d like to find him. There should only be one guard situated outside in the hall and one inside the solar. Jaime doesn’t like many guards in his rooms, as you can guess.”

Brienne nodded and left Tyrion to mull over his papers and treatises. If she ruled Tarth would that be her duty? There was no Hand of the King on Tarth, just a set of advisors, but perhaps she should change that if she ruled. 

As Tyrion promised, there was only one guard standing outside of Jaime’s rooms. He had yet to switch to his Father’s suite of rooms although Brienne could not blame him for doing so. The guard smiled at her and let her in even though she didn’t recognize him. She wondered if Tyrion had told him that she was coming. 

If he had, it was not a shock that the man recognized her. She was a fairly easy identifiable target. 

The guard in the solar wasn’t as friendly despite seeing each other before. “What do you want?” he barked at her. 

Brienne was distinctly reminded of her septa and couldn’t help replying sourly, “I seek an audience with the King.”

“Everyone does,” he said, wariness crossing his face. “And no one shall gain an audience.”

“The Hand of the King sent me to speak with him.”

The guard guffawed. “The Hand of the King can stick it —“

The door to Jaime’s chambers swung open and Brienne saw Jaime there, smiling that terrible smile he always wore. She almost felt sorry for the guard. “Let Princess Brienne in,” he ordered. 

“But aren’t you speaking with your cousin?” the guard said, turning red. “I thought you wanted no interruptions."

Brienne felt even worse. “If you’re busy, your Grace,” she said. Jaime rolled his eyes at her propriety, but she kept speaking, “I can come by later.”

“Come in here,” Jaime said to her, “And Princess Brienne is always welcome in my chambers, is that understood?”

“Yes, your Grace,” the guard said, his eyes wide with a type of understanding Brienne didn’t like. “I shall make sure of it.”

Brienne hurriedly followed Jaime into his room, flushing. “Close the door, wench,” Jaime said and she did, grateful for a chance to cool her face before she looked at him.

“Now, Lancel,” Jaime said cheerily, when Brienne turned to face both Lannisters. Lancel looked almost exactly like Jaime did when she first came to the castle, although also, not at all like him. It was as if someone who suffered from blindness painted Jaime in his youth and that portrait leapt to life as Lancel for Lancel had Jaime’s look but none of Jaime’s personality and charisma. “Perhaps you could tell one of your victims what you told me.”

Lancel Lannister was one of the knights who always served them dinner, Brienne remembered with growing horror. “What?” she asked, “What do you mean?”

“He,” Jaime said, pointing at his cousin, “is the one who listened to Cersei, terrible decision, dear cousin, and put the components of the spell in your food or drink or whatever it was every night. He confessed to me just minutes before you arrived.”

No wonder Lancel looked so ill although Brienne had a hard time pitying him. “You almost killed all of us,” Brienne said. 

“I didn’t know it would kill you,” Lancel said, withering under the matched glares of her and Jaime. “Cersei told me that —“

“It doesn’t matter what she told you,” Jaime said, annoyance clear in his eyes. “You are a man grown and should know better than to listen to her, especially as you saw the consequences develop!”

“I know, I know,” Lancel said, beginning to weep. “I know not what to do to pay for this crime.”

“Perhaps the Wall,” Jaime said, disgusted. “But that may be too public. It is already terrible enough that everyone knows Cersei is the cause of the curse, if the other kingdoms know another Lannister took part, it shall be war once again.”

“Thank you, cousin, oh, thank you,” Lancel said, his tears flowing again. _He looked so young_ , Brienne thought, _even though he is no older than me._

“You are celebrating too early, cousin,” Jaime said. “I am sending you to the Seven. Perhaps you’ll achieve penance there.”

“I will, I will,” Lancel swore, looking determined. “I shall learn chastity —“

“Can you really learn chastity?” Jaime asked under his breath. Brienne bit her lip.

Lancel continued as if he didn’t hear Jaime’s mocking question, “I will become as strong as the Warrior in my faith, your Grace.”

“Good,” Jaime said, bored. “Let the knights standing outside guide you to your new room where you shall stay until all the foreign dignitaries leave. Then we shall send you off to the Septry.”

“Thank you, thank you,” Lancel said, getting up. He faced Brienne and blanched. “Please, my lady, forgive me as well, please.”

Brienne nodded, mostly because she didn’t know what else to do. The boy almost toppled over with relief. “You are too kind,” he said as he left.

“He’s right about that,” Jaime said, frowning as he gestured Brienne to sit down where Lancel had just been sitting. “You are too kind. You should not have forgiven him.”

“I don’t know if I have,” she said.

Jaime smiled, a tight closed-mouth one, and said nothing. He stared at her. She stared back, unwilling to be the first one to speak. If she spoke she’d have to tell him she was leaving. 

_He looked too perfect_ , she thought, _too perfect for one like me — what would it been like to dance with him in Cersei’s terrifying dream castle? Would he have taken me into his arms as he did once before?_

“Wench,” he finally said after he tired of staring into her eyes quietly. “What brings you here?”

“My father is coming for me,” she said quickly. “I’m to go back to Tarth as my Father’s only heir.”

Jaime, who had been bouncing his leg around underneath the desk, stilled. “What?”

“I’m leaving,” she confessed. “I’m going home.”

“This is your home,” he hissed, although he looked more shocked than angry. “I thought — “ he stopped before he could finish. 

“You thought?” Brienne asked.

He smiled but it was hard. “I thought your Father would have had another heir by now.”

“He never married after Mother’s death,” Brienne said. “I have to go back and learn how to rule.”

“You could learn to rule by my example,” Jaime grinned, although it was biting. “After all, I am a King.”

“But not a King of Tarth,” Brienne said. “I have to go back, Jaime.”

He got up from his seat and came over to her, his stride so quick she didn’t understand what he was doing until he was already by her side. “Jaime?” she asked, but he was kneeling next to her seat before she could escape.

“Marry me,” he said.

She blinked at him until he repeated it two more times. “What?” she asked after the last, completely bewildered. 

He smiled and grabbed her rough hands with his left. “Marry me, Brienne.”

“I cannot,” she said, although it was hard to say it. Only in dreams did she imagine him saying such a thing. “I have a duty to my family and my country, Jaime.” She removed his hands and pushed him away before getting up from her seat. She had to stand, if she stood it’d be easier to say no.

He got up as well and followed her around the room until she finally faced him. “You can rule Tarth, our second child will inherit your land,” he said. 

“But what if we only have one child?” Brienne asked. She couldn’t think with Jaime’s breath so near her own. And the idea of having children — multiple children! — with him made her heart race.

“I do not think that will be a problem,” Jaime drawled, his golden hand touching her wrist gently. She shivered from the cold.

“But —“ she said again, but Jaime kissed her before she could complete the thought. 

When he removed his mouth from hers, she kept speaking, trying not to think of how enjoyable that was, and how she wanted him to kiss her for the rest of her life. “But even if we had ten children, would half of them study in Tarth to understand who they’d be ruling? Be sensible, Jaime.”

“I will throw away this awful crown if it means I marry you, wench,” he said, bending his neck up to kiss her again. 

Brienne wanted to protest his use of wench, she wanted to protest him abdicating for her, she wanted to protest being cornered in his rooms, but all she could do was kiss him back as thoroughly as he kissed her.

_He loved her._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may interpret how they deal with the problem because I'm certain they won't come to a decision anytime soon haha (too busy necking).


	37. Jon IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They meet at a hill outside Moat Cailin.

**_ Jon IV _ **

* * *

 

It was on a hill north of the swamps of Moat Cailin that Jon found Ygritte, who was staring beyond as if she could see everything from the spot. As if she could see the world. 

_Perhaps she could,_ he thought, _perhaps she saw through the world as she through saw me._ He shifted his feet and she whirled out her knife, her expression fierce until she realized it was him.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

She didn’t answer, only frowned and sheathed her knife. 

“Ygritte?” he asked, feeling foolish as he did, walking closer to her. “What is it?”

Her eyes were full of dreams even as her mouth walked a straight line. “Come with me, Jon,” she said at last, looking more beautiful than any southron princess that had haunted Casterly Rock. “Come with me beyond-the-Wall and live freely. Be your own man.” It was tempting to agree, Jon thought, looking at Ygritte’s inviting lips, and not just for Ygritte. To escape the mantle of the Bastard of Winterfell, to escape Lady Catelyn’s fine stares, to escape Ned Stark’s heavy duty — it was something he had wanted since he was a boy.

But then, he heard his sister’s voices, as if they stood ten feet away, instead of five hundred, the winds of winter allowing their voices to carry into his ears. Sansa was laughing while Arya was pouting about something unintelligible and he _knew_ he could not leave them behind in a land that they did not know or understand. He knew he could not leave his family, his _duty_ , for freedom… 

_Not yet._

“I cannot,” Jon said, aware that it had been minutes since Ygritte gave her offer. “I cannot, you know I cannot.” _I know I cannot. And I know you cannot go with me for you do not belong behind stone walls._

_No wildling does._

She stared at him, but she did not look surprised nor did she look hurt as most maidens might at his rejection. He wondered what she did look like then, for her expression held something Jon did not understand.

“You know nothing, Jon Snow,” she said finally, raising her hood so he could no longer see her hair that was kissed by fire. 

_“I know my family,”_ he wanted to tell her, _“I know of love and life.”_

But he knew she’d only laugh as she left him in the wasted, snowy hill. So he said nothing to her and waited until she disappeared from his gaze before he left as well. 

He found his sisters by Pyp and Grenn and the two Lannister boys, sitting outside one of the ruined towers of Moat Cailin, somehow not sinking into the muddy swamp. Gendry may have been a Baratheon bastard, but it was the Lannisters who won him and the Lannisters who had him in his pocket. Same with the anointed knight, Ser Podrick Payne, who stared at Sansa as she giggled at Arya, who was juggling apples the way Bran liked to do. 

“Where are the wildlings?” he asked Pyp when he realized their camp was gone. Pyp only shrugged. 

“Seems like they left, milord.”

“Seems?” Jon asked. Ygritte had only been with him moments ago. Had she known they’d leave this early? He thought they would be on the same path until Winterfell. He thought he’d have more nights to spend with her, more nights to kiss her, more nights to…

“This morning, when you are were out scouting,” Grenn said, “Their king told me to tell you when you arrived, although none of us thought you’d take this long.”

_I was distracted by a girl with fire in her hair._ “Mance Rayder gave the order?” Jon said.

“That he did,” Pyp said cheerily, “And they scattered. They call themselves the free folk but how can they be free if they listen to him?”

“They chose him,” Jon said, thinking quickly. “Why would they leave?”

“They’re probably afraid, Ser,” the Lannister knight interrupted. Although could knights truly be this young? _Was I ever this young?_ The boy, Ser Podrick, had left Jon’s sisters to Gendry’s careful eye to stand with Jon and his men. He was cloaked in Lannister red even now, traveling with Starks. 

“Afraid of what?” Jon asked.

“If they’re not afraid of snarks beyond the Wall what would they be afraid of in the southron lands?”

“Being trapped by a Stark king, perhaps,” Ser Podrick said quietly. “They call themselves the free folk.”

“How does a southron boy know so much about wildlings?” Jon asked.

The boy turned as crimson as his cloak. “I asked them.”

_How did I not notice the knight conversing with the wildlings? Was I so distracted by Ygritte’s fire that I ignored the other?_ “And? What did they say?”

“They wanted to avoid Winterfell for they wanted to avoid all southron Kings. They could not avoid Tywin but there was no need to meet another King. The only king they needed was their own — their chosen King,” Ser Podrick said. The boy was so slow and deliberate with his words that Jon almost wondered if he was lying. But Arya and Sansa had spoken up for the knight and it would not due to anger his only sisters. 

Not now. Not after so long apart from one another. 

He glanced their way, glad to see that Gendry was distracting them from the conversation, with what stories Jon didn’t know. Nor did he care to know. The bastard boy reminded him too much of himself, in truth. 

“Bran would have treated them kindly,” Jon said. “But I suppose it matters not. They are gone.”

Ser Podrick nodded then surprised Jon with a question. “What is it like beyond-the-Wall?” 

“I have only been there once.” _With Robb._ “And if you think this land is cold, you could not imagine the land beyond.”

“I see,” mumbled Ser Podrick although Jon clearly saw that the boy did not. 

“Go see to my sisters,” Jon said, “and rest.” _For winter is coming_. 

“Yes, my lord,” Ser Podrick said, bowing at Jon as if he was a prince. Jon wanted to correct him but knew there was little use.

“He’s a shy one,” Grenn said, “but so am I.”

Pyp laughed and Jon wanted to sigh. They were too boisterous for him so he joined the other men-at-arms instead, although they were still not really men, and still boys and men too old to hold a sword. Jon greeted each one as if they were his brothers and smiled at them as kindly as he could. They had trained when he was off at the Rock and all were eager to show off their skills to their commander, but he could take no more than four or five demonstrations before he left them and went to his camp where, to his surprise, he found his sisters.

They were alone now, Jon saw, and his sisters were speaking with one another in hushed voices as if they were afraid their conversation would carry to the outside world.

Sansa saw him first, a strange smile appearing on her face. “Jon!” she said, over Arya’s shoulder. “We have been waiting for you.”

“For what reason is that, sisters?” he asked them, wary. He loved them both enough to rescue them, but for some reason, all he could think of as they sat in his room was that they vouched for Lannister men.

Men who would have killed Robb and Father and the rest if they had been ordered to during the Long War. 

Arya’s smile felt more genuine than Sansa’s and that eased his worries. “We wanted to talk to you.”

“About?” he asked, confused by her tone. 

Sansa flushed but Arya kept speaking, looking somehow both annoyed and determined. “We want to train at Winterfell.”

“We?” Jon asked, looking at Sansa. Sansa, who had always been so feminine and slight. “You both wish to do this?”

Arya’s jaw clenched. “Yes,” she announced for her sister. “Sansa wasn’t sure at first, especially at the Lannister court, but she wants to learn how to shoot a bow at the very least.”

Jon could see Sansa shooting a bow, strangely enough. Her hair tucked back into a braid, her hands gripping the string. He thought of Ygritte again and sighed. Why did she have to leave so quickly? “That is fine by me and I’m sure Bran will approve.”

“But my lady mother,” Sansa said, still flushed, “she will not.”

“She may,” Jon said, although he was unsure. Lady Catelyn had never approved of the lady warriors that lived on Bear Island that had fought by Robb’s side during the Long War, but she would see sense, he suspected, if Sansa asked politely. He kept speaking, forcing a smile to reassure his sisters that their lady mother would love them, even if she didn’t love him. _The Stark bastard._ “She may if only because she would like to see you safe again. Safe and married to a Northern lord.”

Sansa’s hesitant smile dropped at that. “I will not be held hostage by a husband,” she said, her eyes fierce and Tully blue. “I will never be held hostage again.”

Jon almost laughed at her fierceness but knew better than to do something as stupid as that. Still, he could feel the corners of his mouth turn upwards. “I will argue on your behalf then.” It would be better for Lady Catelyn to blame him than to find fault with Sansa, in any case. 

“Thank you,” Sansa said, looking flustered. “Will you teach me the bow then?”

“I will,” Jon said, although he did not look forward to explaining the archery lessons to Lady Catelyn. “I will teach you both.”

Arya scoffed. “I don’t need teaching, I’m quite good.”

“Are you now?” Jon allowed himself a laugh. “We shall have to have a contest.”

“And what do I get if I win?” Arya asked. 

In his mind’s eye, Jon saw Ygritte. _Freedom. You will win freedom._ “I shall let you have ale at dinner.”

Arya grinned. “More than two tankards?”

_She is a lady, not a man-at-arms, she should not be drinking ale._ “As much as you want,” Jon said instead, eager to see his sister smile. 

Sansa shook her head but Arya laughed, “I will win then. I was the best at shooting arrows amongst the princesses at the Rock.”

“But this is Jon,” Sansa said, “he has more experience than any southron princess.”

Arya ignored her. “Should we invite others to join us? Make it a camp-wide affair?”

“Might as well,” Jon said. Arya beamed at his answer and ran out of the tent yelling Gendry’s name. 

Jon scowled until he heard Sansa laugh. “You will have to get used to him,” she said, speaking of Gendry. “He will be around forever if Arya has her way. And she always gets her way in the end.”

He had heard that it was Arya who made Lord Tywin bend about training women. Lord Tywin never allowed women to train as men-at-arms yet Arya (and perhaps a few others) changed his mind. “I know,” Jon said. “They will marry, I suspect.” _A Stark of Winterfell shouldn’t marry a bastard._

_Nor should they have them._

“He’s a royal bastard at least,” Sansa smiled. “Much like yourself.”

“I know,” Jon said, changing the topic. It was uncomfortable to realize how hard Jon was being on the boy, especially by the one sister who ignored him for being a bastard. “And what of your fair knight?”

Sansa’s cheeks turned pink. “He is not my knight.”

“And if he isn’t your knight, whose knight is he? Should I send him back to the Lannisters?”

“No,” she said. “He is our brother’s knight and belongs with us.”

“There are no knights in the North,” Jon reminded her. 

Sansa flashed her teeth in a smile that he imagined made most men tremble. “Not yet,” she corrected him.

Jon decided to leave the subject behind before he insulted her. “We shall leave on the morrow,” he told her. “We will travel faster now that the wildlings have left us, there are so few of us without them that we should reach Winterfell within a week.” _Or two._

“I know,” she said. “I mean, I thought we would leave tomorrow. Moat Cailin is not too far from Winterfell and we could reach Torrhen’s Square soon. We could rest from the march when we reach it.”

“We should be in Winterfell soon,” Jon promised, “Perhaps without even staying at Torrhen’s Square.”

Sansa smiled but her eyes did not. “That is good news," she said, although, by the way she spoke, it sounded like terrible news.

"What is the matter?" he asked.

Sansa looked down. "I am afraid, Jon.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Afraid they will not care for me, that our family should hate me as Arya once did,” Sansa said. “Afraid I will be forced to marry a Northern lord, as you said. I do not want to leave Winterfell ever again. I want to stay with Mother and Brandon and Rickon and you and Arya. I do not want to lose sight of my family until the moment I draw my last breath.”

“You won’t,” he promised, although he wasn’t sure why. “I promise it.”

“By the old gods and the new?” she asked.

He smiled at his sister and felt the burden of his vow to her. “By the old gods and the new.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Jon, thank you.”

She embraced him and Jon held her, glad and grateful he had not left with Ygritte on that hill. Glad his sisters were with him, grateful they were not dead. 

“Do you miss her?” Sansa asked when she let go of him, her eyes bright. 

He knew she spoke of Ygritte. It was no secret that they snuck into one another’s bedrolls at night, not even from his innocent sisters, it seemed. “I do,” he said. “But we shall speak no more of it. The free folk are gone back to their ways. We may meet as enemies if your brother Bran wills it.”

Sansa watched him and Jon wondered what she saw when she looked at him. Did she see a bastard? An orphan? A soldier? 

_Her brother?_

“Bran would do no such thing,” she declared after a moment. As if she still knew what Bran was like — she had not seen the boy since she was no taller than Jon’s hips. “You are our brother and even if you had to —“

“I would do my duty as a Stark soldier,” Jon said, “Even if that meant—“ 

He could not finish speaking and Sansa touched his arm. “You may never meet again, in battle or…” she trailed off, looking embarrassed, and let go of his arm.

“It is all right, Sansa,” he said, almost amused. “Go help Arya recruit for the archery contest. Mayhaps next time you can join us.”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “I doubt that.” 

But she left him in his tent, alone with his thoughts. He could not help but think of Ygritte and again wished she had warned him, again wished he had known that it would be the last time he saw her. 

But that was life, he supposed. The gods were not kind, the old or the new, and they took away love and life quicker than any man could extinguish flame. 

“Jon!” Arya stuck her head through the tent. “Stop moping so I can beat you at this contest.”

He smiled at his beloved sister.

Perhaps they were kinder than he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon is the most morose dude in the entire world, jeezy peezy.
> 
> But we're almost at the end. 
> 
> We're almost at Winterfell. :)


	38. Catelyn III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home to Winterfell.

**_Catelyn III_ **

* * *

The weirwood crown wore heavy on her head, but Bran insisted she don the crown today that Ned gave her years ago, as today was the day of utmost happiness. Today was the day Jon Snow had promised to be home by in his last letter, and today was the last day that Catelyn Stark would cry for her lost girls. Or so she promised to herself in the sept Ned built for her, hoping that it would be true, wishing that Ned was home in her arms.

_I am frightened, Ned,_ she thought. _What if they do not care for me? What if they do not love me as their mother, but only see me as a stranger? What if I do not understand them — what if I cannot love them, just as I cannot love Jon. The Lannisters held them for years — is their loyalty to the Lannisters or to their family?_

_Oh, Ned, I miss you and wish you could take me into your arms and whisper into my hair and tell me it will be all right._

Nodding at the Mother, whose kind gaze held too much understanding and too much knowledge, Catelyn left the sept, adjusting her crown as she walked. It was less a crown and more a ring of weirwood placed on her head, but it made her stand taller and made her remember her first visit to Winterfell — when she was to marry Ned and was crowned the Queen of the North. 

The snow covered her feet and she shook it off wishing, not for the first time, that summer actually felt like summer in Winterfell. But _Winter is Coming_ were her husband’s words and this was true even in summer. She had to remember this as she thought of her daughters’ faces. They would be home and it would be summer, but winter would come again. 

It always did.

Bran awaited her in his throne room, his face impatient as befit a boy of three and ten. She smiled at him and wanted to smooth his brow, but resisted the impulse. He was her King now.

Not her son, no matter how much she wished it. 

“Mother,” he greeted unsmiling. “I sent scouts out to look for them and guide them home. Jon said —“

“He said they’d be home soon,” she reminded her son. “He said he would try to be here by now but Jon Snow cannot control the weather, Bran, he did not know the summer snows would fall as they did the last few days.”

It was strange to defend Jon Snow, but even _she_ knew that her husband’s bastard could not fight the weather. _Winter is coming._ It always was.

Bran shook his head. “They will be here,” he said with a stubborn look on his face. He looked like Robb — he looked like _her,_ she realized with a sad smile. No wonder Ned could never deny her when she had that look upon her own face. 

_No wonder he loved me as he did._

“Bran,” she tried to say, but was interrupted by Rickon, who had ran inside, tracking snow and dirt, a grand smile on his face.

“They’re here! They’re here!” he yelled, grasping Catelyn’s arm, his wild behavior almost knocking her onto the ground. Maester Luwin followed behind him from the outdoors, albeit more slowly, and with a much calmer demeanor. She must have looked to him for the truth for he smiled at her and nodded. 

And so she ran to her daughters. 

If she had been a better mother, perhaps she would have waited for them in the throne room with her sons, clutching both of their hands in anticipation, but she could not wait to see her daughters any longer. 

She could not.

If she had been a better mother, she would have never let Sansa and Arya go at all.

“Arya!” she yelled, upon seeing a crowd of people at Winterfell’s gate. “Sansa!”

A girl who looked like winter stumbled out of the crowd, joy upon her face, and Catelyn saw Ned in her eyes. “Mother!” the girl said and sprinted towards her.

“Oh, Arya,” was all Catelyn could say when her daughter landed into her arms. “Oh, my child.” She kissed Arya’s brow the way she could not kiss Bran’s and wept as she held her daughter. 

Arya, who Catelyn remembered almost never weeping even when in pain even when she was a small child with dirt behind her ears, had tears in her grey eyes. Arya tried to hide them by looking behind her laughing and crying all at once. Curious, Catelyn looked as well, refusing to let go of Arya’s hand and so when she saw her eldest daughter, it was only Arya who kept Catelyn from falling onto the ground.

Sansa looked like her — only like her, not like Ned at all— and it was that that made Catelyn think of Petyr’s promises of saving Sansa, and never mentioning Arya. She melted with shame as she saw her beautiful daughter come up to her, walking to her cautiously even as her cheeks drowned in tears. 

“Sansa,” she said to her daughter and then Sansa ran up to her and kissed her on both cheeks before grasping her and Arya with cold hands. 

Arya hugged them both in return and Catelyn could feel all of it at once. Her joy, her relief, her sorrow, her gratitude, her pain, her love. 

_Ned… they’re home._

“Mother?” another voice behind her called out, and she reluctantly pulled away from her daughters to look at her sons. Rickon ran up to them and Sansa cried again, taking her youngest sibling into her arms while Arya laughed as Hodor took Bran to them, repeating “Hodor Hodor Hodor” excitedly as he could. Bran’s smile made him look like the boy he truly was and it was all Catelyn could do but to weep again.

It was Bran’s voice that reminded her that she could not. “Thank you, Jon Snow,” he said, looking beyond their family, speaking as a King should. “Without you, our sisters would not be here.”

Jon Snow shook his head causing snowflakes to fall out. “It is not I who saved your sisters, my King,” he said. “But this boy here.”

The direwolves barked and howled and suddenly Catelyn found herself looking at Robert Baratheon.

_He is dead, he is dead yet this boy…_

Arya grinned at the boy and Catelyn faltered. “Who are you?” Catelyn asked Robert’s ghost. He bowed his head.

“I am Gendry Waters, my lady.”

_A bastard boy._ “How did you save them?”

“I don’t know,” he said. Were his cheeks turning red? How strange. Arya was blushing too now while Sansa laughed. 

“He is not the only one who helped save us, Mother. Brienne of Tarth was a princess with us and she ended the curse as much as Gendry did.”

Tarth was an island of little consequence beside the Stormlands, Catelyn remembered. “We shall have to thank her,” she said, feeling very off her feet.

“And, oh, Mother,” Sansa said, pulling Catelyn to the rest of their caravan, “You must meet another one of our heroes.” A boy stood there, not much taller than Sansa, clad in Lannister red. She must have scowled for the boy looked away. Sansa was oblivious to the silent conversation. “This is Ser Podrick Payne,” she smiled, “And he is braver than even Florian.”

Catelyn remembered how Sansa loved the singers an the songs. It was nice to know that some things never changed. “I see.”

“He hopes Bran will take him into his service,” Sansa said. “I hope so too, he is a true knight.”

Ser Podrick blushed. “Than-thank you, Princess Sansa.”

Sansa smiled and Catelyn could only wonder for a moment before Arya was back at her side, pulling her free arm. “I want to see everything!”

Catelyn laughed and (for a moment) Ned and Robb were still alive. “You shall.“

“You're right! I will right now!” Arya interrupted, grabbing the boy Gendry by the hand and taking off in the direction of the throne room. 

Sansa giggled. “She loves him, you know.”

Catelyn looked sharply at her eldest daughter. “What? But he’s —“

“The son of Robert Baratheon,” Jon Snow said. “A bastard son, but still a son.”

That is what Jon Snow would say, Catelyn thought, but he was not wrong. And the boy had saved her daughter. 

But it would not be Catelyn’s decision on whether Arya and Gendry would be joined in marriage. That was Bran’s duty as her brother and as King.

“Mother,” Sansa said, her voice full of something Catelyn had not heard in a long time. **_Hope._** “I am glad to be home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end folks! I think it has been exactly two years since I first published this on Ao3 and more than two years (possibly almost three) since I first came up with this idea and started working on it! Over 70000 words later and we finally are at the end. This has been one of the most ambitious, hard, and fun projects I've ever worked on, and I hope you all enjoyed it, whether you came to this story at its beginning or at its end.  
> Thank you for reading.


End file.
